


The Last Temptation of Pryce ~ by Ellison Wonderland

by AngelBookofDaysModerator



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Angel Book of Days Challenge, Crossover, Episode: s02e12 Epiphany, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-11-03
Updated: 2003-11-03
Packaged: 2017-10-31 06:31:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/340993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelBookofDaysModerator/pseuds/AngelBookofDaysModerator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written by Ellison Wonderland (ewonder2001@yahoo.com.au). Posted on the author's behalf by the Angel Book of Days Moderator.</p><p>This slash story explores Wesley's response to Angel's epiphany in season 2 and his return to Angel Investigations. It makes copious use of the poem "To Autumn" by John Keats.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Valente](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Valente).



It’s almost impossible to get comfortable in a straight-backed chair. Add to that the exhaustion that lingers after a serious gunshot wound, and it’s not one of Wesley’s better days. The boss can’t be seen to wilt, however, so he tries to stop the dead flower impersonation and glares impartially around the room.

No one seems to have noticed. In fact, Cordelia appears to be doing a comedy routine with her phone that defies description. He tries not to catch her eye but he’s too slow to look away. Wesley is left trying to interpret a series of grimaces, eye-rolls, and finger-pointing at the receiver. The headshake is a new one. Her head flops from side to side like it’s semi-detached.

"What on earth...?" he asks.

Cordelia glares at him in outrage and gestures angrily at the sliding doors behind which they’ve hidden the prodigal vampire. She’s mouthing something but Wesley has never included lip reading in his list of scholarly achievements.

"Cordelia..."

His mention of her name is met with a series of snorts and hisses that culminate in an angry stab of a button on her phone.

"...so do you think you can come?"

Ah, so that particular contortion of her lips signifies "Buffy". But why has Cordelia put this on speakerphone?

"Straight from Darla to Buffy, from one destructive deadly blonde to another," Cordelia screeches, drowning out the phone conversation.

"I really don’t think we should eavesdrop," lies Wesley. He wants to hear this as much as Cordelia does.

"You weren’t exactly my first resort, Angel," comes Buffy’s voice from the phone, somehow tinny and lacking the strength that he remembers. "But he’s your – um – childe or whatever, isn’t he?"

"Well, not exactly my childe, more kinda ...um...my childe’s childe...ah..."

Angel’s voice peters out and there is a moment of silence.

"Your grandchild?" Buffy’s voice is hesitant.

"No, well, kinda, so – what’s Spike done, exactly?"

"He’s disappeared."

"And that’s a problem, how exactly? I didn’t think you’d care."

"Um, hello. Evil undead, possibly unchipped vampire disappears and I don’t care? Besides he has a..."

"What was that last bit? You kinda – mumbled."

"I do not mumble. He has something of mine and we need it back. Badly. So you have to come to Sunnydale and do your childe location mojo thingy."

"My what?" Angel sounds genuinely baffled. Wesley shares his confusion but Cordelia looks far from puzzled. She looks downright furious.

"Giles says it’s like some kind of vampire homing beacon. You can sense where your childe is?"

"Oh." There’s a clink on Angel’s table, as if a cup of blood has been set down. "Yeah. Well, I wouldn’t call it a homing beacon, exactly. You know, it’s a funny thing, they had these beacons in World War 2 that..."

"Enough with the history lesson," snaps Buffy. "Are you coming or not?"

"I didn’t think you’d want me anywhere near you."

That’s said in Angel’s rueful little-boy voice but Wesley is not deceived. He’s been on the receiving end of that voice himself for the past few days. Sorry I left you to get shot in the gut. Sorry I didn’t come see if you were alive. Sorry I kicked you out of your job, your life, my world. Sorry to be crawling back to you like a snake about to strike. Sorry sorry sorry.

"Angel, we *need* you. What I want doesn’t really come into it. I’ll do what I have to do, as always. So, can you come find Spike for us or not? We’ve got a – thing – and we’re on a tight timetable here."

"Okay."

Cordelia half rises from her chair and then crashes back as if she’s having a vision. She’s shaking her head so hard that Wesley has a dizzying moment when he actually sees it come flying off. 

"We’ll be there tonight."

Click.

Angel will still hear the dial tone when he walks into the room a second later.

"Hey, guys," he says, a big friendly smile splashed across his face. There’s a speck of blood on his chin. Angel’s usually so fastidious, like a big cat. Wesley itches to go over there and – wipe it off or something. It makes him feel nervous, on the back foot already for a conversation that he doesn’t want to have.

"Buffy has a – thing. She’s asked us to go to Sunnydale and help her out. I told her I’d have to ask the boss." Angel rolls the word ‘boss’ around in his mouth like blood. Liar. He told her no such thing. But Wesley can’t confront him without admitting to eavesdropping. 

"Oh, right," says Cordelia, head now nodding in short staccato movements. No wonder she gets headaches. "One blonde obsession doesn’t do it for you in the sex-having soul-losing stakes so you’re gonna go off to the other one when, let’s face it, we already *know* how that’s gonna turn out. Well, Mister I-can’t-keep-it-in-my-pants, you don’t get to decide these things anymore. Wesley does. He’s the boss of Angel Investigations."

It’s not quite the clincher that the triumphant Cordelia seems to think. Besides, Angel has already said as much.

"Can you tell us a bit more about this ‘thing’ of Buffy’s? What does she need us to do?" Wesley keeps his tone cautious and his eyes level. There’s a flash of something in Angel’s face but it’s gone before Wesley can be sure about it. Angel leans casually against the door, weight on one foot, hand on hip, a classic alpha male pose of dominance. Wesley fights the urge to lick Angel’s chin clean and goddamn groom him. He’s in charge here, not Angel. Otherwise nothing has really changed.

"All I know is that Spike has it and Buffy needs it. She needs *me* to find Spike. Oh, and it’s something magical so I need Wes to help in that department. You know. Hit the books or something."

Angel was more persuasive when he was evil. He was also a better liar.

"What are Gunn and I supposed to do while you’re off knocking private bits with Buffy?" demands Cordelia.

Angel straightens up and looms over her. Cordelia is not intimidated. Wesley recalls how his own heart used to race when Angel stood too close like that. But then, he’s always seen Cordelia as stronger than himself. 

"We’d only be gone a night or two. If you have a vision, Gunn can take care of it or it’ll have to wait till we get back. I don’t really have a choice here, Cordelia. Buffy says it’s an end-of-the-world kinda thing."

"Oh," says Cordelia, shooting them both her unimpressed smirk. "Well, if *Buffy* says it, then it must be true."

She hesitates as if unsure where this is taking her. 

"And you," she rounds on Wesley. "Are you just gonna sit there and let Obsesso here go back to his old ways? It’s like makeup. At first, you think that just a little lip gloss and eyeliner will do. But then there’s the sun and wind, and the gloss wears off, and the eyeliner runs. So you put more on. And you get heavy duty stuff. Before long it’s an inch thick and you’re putting it on with a shovel. And the next thing you know, you’ve turned into Gene Simmons."

Cordelia shudders at him triumphantly. Wesley gives her his best look of polite bafflement. 

"Kiss!" she shouts.

"Okay," says Angel. 

His lips don’t appear to smudge her perfect makeup. There’s no mark on her cheek when he pulls away. Wesley feels himself getting hot and remembers how it was when he first started working for Angel. All those cool looks and knowing smiles, the peering over his shoulder as he paged through ancient books, the casual brushes and the constant hard ons. Until one day, Angel cut Wesley’s pants off and fucked him over the corpse of a demon they’d just killed. That all stopped with Darla’s return, and the long dark haunting of Angel’s dreams.

Cordelia is blushing and simpering as if she’s stepped back a century in time. Is that all it takes to shut her up? He’ll have to try it.

"That’s all very well," Wesley says dismissively. "Angel, you’ve turned away from your mission before and look where it’s taken you. Are you sure you want to go down that road again?"

"This is different," says Angel. "It’s Slayer business. The Powers would want me to help with that."

Angel is smiling and earnest, like he’s never knelt in a sewer and sucked Wesley’s cock. It’s disconcerting. Wesley’s gut aches and he remembers the heat of the bullet tearing through him, the shock, the pain. And in his mind, he can’t tell why it’s different from the first time Angel fucked him. 

"You may be right," he admits. Angel, surprisingly, has a point. If there’s one cause that the Powers always seem to get behind, it’s the Slayers. 

Faith cut Wesley open and Buffy made his soul bleed. It’s what Slayers do. 

"We’ll leave at sunset. Angel, you’re driving."

As if there were any doubt.

***

Angel has spent 300 years in hell. The drive from LA to Sunnydale is only three hours but Wesley knows how Angel must have felt. The vampire hasn’t stopped making awkward conversation since he turned the key in the ignition.

"Another funny thing that happened to me – well, maybe not so funny, really – was the time I got my soul and kinda went crazy. I guess overwhelming guilt will do that to a guy. Not to mention a diet of rats. I don’t really recommend it. They taste like – well, like vermin, I suppose, if you ever – not that I think you’ll end up...Anyway, rats. Yuk. But that’s not really what I meant. It’s more about the time after the rats, if you see what I mean?"

The countryside is too dark to see much but Wesley is leaning back, pretending to be casual, looking up at the stars. It’s a hot clear night, more summer than autumn, just the way that summer is more winter back at home. Wesley has grown so used to the LA haze, a thick golden miasma in the air, that he’s forgotten how brightly the stars can shine. 

"I went back to them, you see; Darla, Spike and Dru. I caught up with them in China of all places. Don’t suppose you’ve been to the Forbidden City, have you, Wes? It wouldn’t be the same now without all the eunuchs. Mmm. All soft and plump with buttery thighs, the kind you can... Right. Um. The Dowager Empress was a vampire. That’s why a slayer was called in Peking and led the Boxer Rebellion. The history books don’t say much about that, because it’s underground history and all, but I thought maybe your Watcher chronicles had something?"

There’s a star shining over Sunnydale and they’re driving towards it. Wesley wishes it were morning so he could stuff Angel in the trunk. Anything would be better than listening to the big-kid shtick all over again, letting it lull him, maybe even starting to believe it.

"I tried really hard because they were family and I had to be with them. I had to see if I could make it work. Maybe I could change them, or channel and control them. Their blood called out to me in my dreams."

"And you were fucking them," offers Wesley. It’s the first thing he’s said in over an hour.

Angel swerves to pass a granny and changes lanes. He’s driving very fast for a trip that seems to be taking forever.

"I tried to live off the blood of evil-doers. There are lots of them during a rebellion."

"It all depends on your definition of evil," says Wesley.

Angel appears to ignore this and continues doggedly with his story. "Darla found out and tested me with a baby. Pure innocence. I looked into its eyes and saw its soul. She wanted me to drain it and toss it out with the night-soil. I thought I could control my family and all it would cost was this one life. If I proved myself to her, I could be one of them again and – and make them stop, lead us into situations where the only victims would be the guilty. That’s what I was thinking. Looking back, it seems crazy now."

Wesley chooses his words carefully. He’d rather not respond at all but Angel is looking at him hopefully instead of at the road. "You don’t have a price to pay, to return to the service of the Powers. If that’s what you’re asking me."

"The Powers aren’t my family."

The car swerves again. Wesley pushes hard against the floor with his foot, even though he *knows* that the brakes are on Angel’s side.

Angel is still looking at Wesley instead of the traffic. "Another thing. Spike killed that Slayer. He wasn’t even in the service of the Empress but he was there and he was hot for a kill. Spike ended up saving her throne for her. Ironic, huh? He was so proud of it, like a little kid, skipping along the road, wanting Daddy’s approval. My approval. We were staying at the mission house. It was an American mission, no crosses or anything, so I took him out the back and did him in the chapel. He loved it and I – belonged."

It’s like being shot again. Wesley clutches his gut and looks carefully out the window, ignoring Angel and traffic both in favour of the night sky. 

"What do you want of me?" he whispers.

Oddly, that seems to silence Angel for a while. Maybe Angel doesn’t know either. 

When the silence grows thicker than the hot air outside, Wesley decides that it’s his turn to talk.

"It we took that turn-off, we’d end up in San Diego," he says, gesturing vaguely to his left. It’s not true but Angel won’t know that.

Angel gifts him with one of those confused looks that Wesley used to find so cute. "You want to go to San Diego?"

"No, no, I’m just saying that – well, I’ve been down that road."

"To San Diego?"

"Yes, to San Diego." Wesley welcomes the annoyance. It warms him and he starts to hurt, like pins and needles after a rush of returning blood.

"Why do you want to go to San Diego?"

"I don’t want to – look, I went to San Diego. Do you want to hear about this or not?"

Angel shrugs but his lips are twitching. Prat. "Sure," he says.

"I went to Sea World there. I can’t remember why, now. It was a day out for Buffy and the others. No doubt I found it frivolous at the time. But now..."

"But now?" Angel prompts him when Wesley lapses into his habitual silence. It didn’t used to be habit, but now he wears it the way he wore Angel’s coat, the night he met Virginia. Too big for him, but oh, how he loves the feel of its heaviness on his shoulders.

He thinks about Virginia, how she dumped him the night of Angel’s epiphany, as if there were only room for one person to fuck Wesley over at a time. It didn’t hurt as much then, when he was still numb. Now, his anger simmers low and hot. He turns the heat up a little on Angel.

"I saw a tank of sharks there. They weren’t what I was expecting. They were so big, so powerful, they had a strange kind of grace in the water – almost beautiful. Their teeth were so huge in their mouths, it was like they were always grinning. Always smiling. But I knew, looking at them, that those smiles would rend me to pieces in an instant if they could."

"Uh-huh," says Angel. "We’ll be there soon. Are you alright? How’s the gut?"

"I don’t blame a shark for being a shark, Angel."

Wesley shivers when Angel’s hand rests on his knee. Just changing gears. Changing down as they begin the slow drive through the suburbs of Sunnydale.

"In their own way, sharks are beautiful. What I do mind is when a shark pretends to be a – a dolphin. The bite hurts more then. Do you understand?"

Angel nods blankly. "Yeah. You don’t like sharks. You like dolphins. Right?"

Wesley moves Angel’s hand back onto the gearstick. "How much longer until we get there?"

***

They pull up outside Giles’ shop just before 11pm. Wesley has never been more grateful to get out of anywhere than Angel’s car. He stretches his legs and breathes in the Hellmouth. This was his home for a while and it feels like a homecoming of sorts. He wonders if *this* audience will be as difficult as his family back in England. He’s not sure that he cares, in any case. Everything he’s feeling is focused on the creature getting out of the other side of the car, giving Wesley the eager, hopeful smile that sucked him into hell. Wesley wants to hit something but he’s too angry for it to do much good. Besides, Buffy hits back and Angel – might not.

"Well, here we are," says Angel, heartily, sounding how Wesley imagines a football coach might sound on the day of the big game. "I got you here in one piece. That’s one less reason for Cordy to want to kill me. I’d better call and let her know."

Angel fishes a cell phone out of his shirt pocket, drawing Wesley’s eyes to his broad chest. There’s no heart beating there but Wesley imagines that he can see a slight rise and fall anyway. He can’t see Angel’s nipples either but he knows how they taste, slick with sweat after a hard fight. It’s pure Sunnydale that he wants to taste them again, to lick and bite them until Angel comes in his pants like a teenager.

"Hi, Cordy – yeah, I know we help the helpless – oh, I see." Angel puts his hand over the mouthpiece. "There’s a beep," he explains to Wesley. "I’m supposed to leave a message."

Wesley nods but his eyes go straight back to Angel’s chest. With any luck, Angel will be too busy trying to master the intricacies of a recorded message to notice. 

"It’s Angel here. That’s A-n-g-e-l. So, we’re here. Wesley’s fine. The car’s fine. I’m fine. Do I just hang up now or what?"

Wesley leaves him to it and heads into the shop, taking a perverse enjoyment from the moment of surprised silence, and the way they all look over his shoulder for someone else.

"Angel’s right behind me," he says, when the moment lasts a bit too long.

"Hi, Wesley, how are you?" asks Willow with a friendly smile, coming forward for an awkward hug that turns into a handshake. 

"I’m well," he answers politely, as he’s been taught, not bothering to explain the horrors of injury, painful convalescence, fighting evil and himself, and a lover’s betrayal. "How are all of you?"

"Yeah, good," says Buffy, wandering past him and out the door. Rupert is offering him tea when she reappears with Angel, side by side but carefully not touching. He accepts the tea while Angel holds his phone aloft and informs the room, "You’re supposed to just hang up. When you’re finished."

"And they say *our* schools are bad," quips Xander. "Well, Giles says it, if that counts."

"Yes," says Giles, his sharp eyes at odds with the vague smile he’s giving Wesley. "Well, it’s good to see you. Both. Shall we get on with it?"

"There’s blood in the fridge," says Buffy, tugging Angel in the direction of the back rooms.

"Old Spikey won’t mind if you help yourself," calls Xander, rolling his eyes at Willow.

They all jump when the cell phone rings, lying where Angel abandoned it on the countertop. 

Xander repeats the eye-roll that he must have learnt from Cordelia – or taught her, Wesley’s not sure which. "Angel’s phone plays *Bonanza*?"

"Cordelia programmed it," says Wesley, picking up the phone.

"Hello? Ah, Gunn, good to hear from you. Yes, we arrived without me dusting him... Yes, he did talk for the whole three hours... No, we didn’t – er – do that. No one would. It could cause traffic accidents. Besides, there wouldn’t be enough room for someone to fit...I’m not going to discuss this with you, Gunn. No, not now, not ever... Yes, I do know that that’s a very long time... No, I do not – oh, put Cordelia on... I see, I’ll tell him... Yes, we’ll kick Spike’s ass if – no – no there will be none of *that* kind of carry on... No, I do not think that a vampire at each end is a good thing... I have to go now... Yes, I will remember at all times that he is the evil undead. Thank you, Charles. Good-bye."

The others look at him expectantly.

"That was Charles Gunn. He works with us and he’s a wonderful chap. He’s my best friend."

The latter is said almost defiantly at Angel, who has just emerged from the back of the shop with a brimming cup of hot blood. He raises it to his lips and drinks slowly, no other reaction visible.

"Cordelia was at her hairdresser’s. Apparently, there’s been a dreadful accident involving a vision and a bottle of hair dye. Gunn wouldn’t say any more."

"What was the vision?" asks Angel. He has a blood moustache and he’s looking boyish again. It makes Wesley want to lower his guard but Angel probably knows that.

"You and I were in a forest clearing, digging for something. There were leaves falling on us from the sky; lots of leaves, apparently. I have no idea why that matters but Cordelia seems to think it does."

"That’s it?" asks Buffy, incredulous. "What kind of vision is that?" 

"The helpful kind." Willow beams at everyone. "Our ancestors cut down all the trees around here so there’s only one forest near Sunnydale – that nature reserve, you know the one – so now we know where to look for Spike."

"It’s not necessarily related to your search for Spike," says Wesley. "Angel’s visions concern his mission."

Buffy ignores him, looking down at her feet instead. "Boots. Good sturdy boots. I must have some, somewhere. The kind that go with jeans and a sweater. Tight, tight jeans. Skin-tight, yes. And elegant but oh-so-practical walking boots."

Willow follows Buffy’s lead, examining her own tennis shoes with dismay. "I guess these’ll do. For hiking in a forest. I’m already wearing practical footwear. How sad is that?"

Angel is looking at Buffy but not at her shoes. The mention of skin-tight jeans seems to have riveted his attention. Wesley wishes Gunn were here right now so that they could grab a pair of sticks and beat Angel’s head in.

"You may not need your boots," says Giles, restraining Buffy with a word, even though she’s up and almost out the door, bouncing with Slayer energy. 

"Why not?"

Giles lifts a small book from the counter and it falls open at a much-thumbed page. "This is a copy of a manuscript from the time of Christ, itself copied and preserved by a community of heretic seers in the Middle Ages. I think I understand this passage in it now. ‘Then shall the Chosen One, the vampire with a soul, and his Eromenos, do battle with the Winnower under the falling leaves for the Stone of Morpheus.’ I think that this refers to Angel and Wesley, and that they are fated to go alone."

"What’s an eromenos?" asks Willow. "That’s Greek, isn’t it?"

"What’s the Winnower?" asks Angel.

Wesley avoids Giles’ eye and thanks all the gods he can think of that Buffy’s crew are incapable of picking up a dictionary. Except for Willow, maybe.

"Yes, you’re quite right, Willow, it’s a Greek word. This is an ancient Greek prophecy. An eromenos is a – er – a male sidekick, I believe would be the best modern translation. Yes."

Xander can’t contain his laughter. His gaze ricochets back and forth between Angel and Wesley. "What? You mean, like Hercules and Iolaus?"

Giles’ grin at Wesley is unholy. "Yes, Xander, exactly like Hercules and Iolaus. Also, like Hercules and Hylas. Zeus and Ganymede. And many others, I understand."

"Geek," Buffy laughs at Xander. "So, there’s a prophecy." Her tone turns gloomy. "Why is there always a prophecy? And why haven’t you mentioned this one before now?"

"I wasn’t sure how it applied, before now."

Giles is carefully not looking at the tent in Wesley’s pants, where he’s been hard since Angel licked off his blood moustache and started to scratch his chest. Lazily rubbing one pec with his blunt thumb. He’s still doing it. Wesley angles his overnight bag to hide his erection from the others. He knows it’s too late to hide anything from Rupert.

"What’s the Winnower?" repeats Angel, apparently tired of waiting his turn.

"Traditionally, that’s a title for Death," says Wesley, flatly. 

"Great," says Angel. His smile is broad. He really means it. "So, when do we get started?"

"I think we need to know a little bit about this Stone of Morpheus before we go plunging off into a battle with Death," says Wesley. "I’m rather assuming that it’s what you’re all looking for, and that Spike has it?"

"Yeah, the sneak bleach thief," says Xander. "He stole it from Buffy and took off, God knows where. Well, except that those ancient Greeks know where. And Cordelia. How is she, by the way? Still – um, perky?"

"Actually, Spike didn’t steal the Stone. I gave it to him."

Everyone turns to look at Buffy.

"What?" she asks, wrapping her arms around herself, looking like a helpless little girl. "I thought it was just some old rock. One of Giles’ bits of that wall. You know. Hadie or something."

"You’ve stolen stones from Hadrian’s Wall?" demands Wesley, a flood of outrage pulling him out of an old-fashioned funk, brought on by a 2000-year-old Greek and a prophecy of him as Angel’s boytoy. 

"Unless the eromenos is Spike," suggests a girl, sitting behind Willow. Wesley hasn’t noticed her before now, and he has no idea who she is.

"Ah. Quite," says Giles. "Thank you Tara. I hadn’t thought of that. Well, Angel? Which is it, Wesley or Spike?"

Angel hefts an axe that he seems to have pulled out of thin air, swinging it dramatically in graceful swoops. His smile is very bland. "I guess we’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?"

All eyes follow the axe as it weaves and plunges, its head catching and reflecting the light. Angel might have hypnotised them all but the light is tarnished and Wesley aches with it.

The axe stops suddenly, caught in Buffy’s deceptively slender hand. "I want to go too," she says.

"It would be a shame to waste those boots," agrees Angel. He’s still smiling.

They both turn to Giles and Wesley knows, like a stab in the chest, that he’ll agree. They can achieve anything when they’re together.

***  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written by Ellison Wonderland (ewonder2001@yahoo.com.au). Posted on the author's behalf by the Angel Book of Days Moderator

The crunch of dead leaves is very loud underfoot. At least Wesley’s not blundering into trees, because Giles had some heavy-duty flashlights in his shop. Buffy is somewhere ahead of him, elegant boots crunching the dead carpet like everyone else’s. Her jeans aren’t skin-tight so much as a layer of rice paper between her skin and Angel’s eyes. 

"Maybe we should have brought a bloodhound." Xander is just behind him and the sound of his voice makes Wesley jump.

"Jumpy much?" Willow speaks in his other ear.

"Angel’s a good bloodhound," snaps Buffy, turning around and shining her flashlight in their eyes.

"Hey, guys, I’m not a dog." Angel’s voice is plaintive and Wesley bites his tongue to stop himself from offering reassurance. 

"Angel, are you sensing anything at all?" asks Giles, who’s over to the left somewhere. Wesley lost his bearings after a few minutes in the forest but Angel seems to know where he’s going. Or rather, he’s leading and the others are following blindly, a habit Wesley thought he’d given up.

"We can’t just wander around in the dark all night," he says, stopping abruptly and nearly colliding with Xander and Willow behind him. "Angel, we need to stop so that you can shut out all distractions and concentrate on the blood bond that you share with Spike."

"Blood bond?" asks Willow. "How does it work, exactly?"

Xander moves ahead and shoves something into Angel’s hands. It looks like a hunk of cloth but it’s too dark to tell much else. 

"What’s this?"

"It’s one of Spike’s shirts. I thought it might help."

"Xander!" There’s a definite crack in Angel’s pleasant mask. "For the last time, I am *not* a dog. I’m not tracking Spike. I don’t need one of his fucking shirts."

"Yeah, right," mutters Xander. "Like *your* way’s getting us anywhere. Just follow your nose, boy."

"How come you have one of Spike’s shirts?" asks Willow.

The following silence feels awkward to Wesley. Angel is spluttering like a failed firework and Xander looks very uncomfortable. 

"What’s the plural of eromenos?" asks the quiet girl whose name he’s forgotten.

"Buffy, Xander, Willow, Tara, Wesley, go and stand over by that tree," orders Giles. They look around haplessly at the trees but no one quite dares to ask which one. Giles is using his "no talking in the library" voice, so they mull aimlessly and eventually end up under the branches of a huge tree that looks like it’s seen a thousand seasons. Wesley is annoyed with himself for taking Rupert’s orders but he can’t seem to help it.

"Angel. Please sit down and concentrate and do whatever it is you have to do to locate Spike."

For a moment, Wesley’s sure that Angel’s desire not to muss his pants will win out over the Librarian Voice, but in the end the vampire sinks to his knees in the dirt and bows his head. He looks like he’s praying.

"To what dark god?" Wesley wonders aloud.

Angel’s head whips up and turns towards him. They’ve switched the flashlights off by unspoken agreement but the starlight illumines the outline of Angel’s body. It’s like a softly lit statue in a garden at night, with strong graceful lines, but made out of stone.

Wesley doesn’t answer what he’s sure is a challenge. Angel continues to stare in his direction until he’s nearly screaming with the effort not to jump up and run.

"I think he’s sniffing," whispers Xander. "Does it look like he’s sniffing to you?"

Xander’s words trigger an involuntary response in Wesley and he takes a deep breath, scenting the air for himself. There’s a strange smell of honeysuckle and cloves, sweet with a hint of spice. Maybe one of the girls is wearing a strange perfume. The scent lingers, cloying in the back of his throat. It reminds him of embalming, done the old fashioned way with spices. The smell of death. 

"This way."

Angel is already disappearing into the trees, a shadow in the dark until Buffy snaps on her flashlight. Wesley joins the general scramble to catch up but Buffy is faster than all of them and is soon at Angel’s side like she belongs there. 

Angel leads them deeper into the forest for about half an hour, until the volume of complaints from Xander makes Wesley want to stake him.

"Are we there yet?"

"Xander, I’m afraid that if you do not stop this incessant whining, I will have to send you back to the car. On your own. Without a flashlight."

"Sorry, Giles," mutters Xander, but the grin he flashes at Willow is unrepentant.

The spice-laden air feels close and heavy to Wesley, getting thicker with every step.

How can the others be so blithe, so uncaring?

"Does anyone else smell that?" he asks.

Willow shoots him an offended look. "Hey, tramping around in the forest at night, anyone’s bound to build up a little sweat. You don’t smell so good yourself, mister."

"No, I mean..."

"Over here," calls Angel. 

He’s stopped in a small clearing that looks exactly the same as every other patch of forest they’ve walked through tonight. The smell is fainter in that direction and Wesley’s spirits lift a little. Angel’s bulk looks reassuring in the dark rather than sinister. He finds himself smiling and can’t explain it.

"I don’t see anything," says Buffy. "Is this the part where you and Wesley start digging?"

Angel looks up as if waiting for leaves to fall from heaven. The trees don’t oblige him. Everything is still and quiet.

"Huh," says Xander. "Say, did anyone think to bring shovels?"

For the second time that night, Angel drops to the ground and bows his head. Wesley inches closer, and notes how Buffy tracks his every move, as if she’s guarding her territory. Where the hell is her boyfriend? Riley Something. Why isn’t he here to remind everyone that Buffy and Angel are finished with each other?

"At least he fucked me more than once," he imagines himself saying to Buffy.

To which she might reply, "He lost his soul with me."

Wesley’s an also-ran. Buffy comes first. Darla’s probably second. He’s not even a close third. 

"Wes, are you gonna help me dig?"

While Wesley’s been having a staring-match with a girl who barely comes up to his shoulder, Angel’s been scrabbling in the forest floor with his hands. He’s already piled up a lot of leaves and loose debris and is down into the dirt. 

"I can kick your ass," says Buffy softly. Somehow, she knows he’s a threat, though he doubts she could tell him to what.

"I know," he replies.

The loose leaves and dirt feel strangely good under his fingers, and the rich peaty smell drives the last of the honeysuckle out of his nostrils. 

"What are we digging for? Do you think Spike has buried the Dreamstone here?"

"No," says Angel shortly. He stops suddenly as if he’s met resistance, and then starts to brush dirt gently away from it.

It’s a face, staring up at them out of the earth with wide, unseeing eyes.

"Good God," says Wesley.

"I think he’s buried *himself* here."

Wesley stops digging at once but Angel continues to smooth the dirt away until a pair of clasped hands comes into view. There’s something trapped in those ghostly white fingers, and Wesley doesn’t have to be a genius to guess what it is.

"Buffy, I think we’ve found your missing piece of Hadrian’s Wall."

"I thought he was gonna stop using that black nail polish," says Xander. "Hey, what?"

Wesley ignores them and watches the tenderness in Angel’s face as he wipes the dirt from Spike’s hands. This is how he looks when he makes love, the times when a rough hard fuck isn’t what Angel needs for the craving of his tortured soul. Wesley used to steal quick glimpses of Angel like this and squeeze his eyes tight shut, hoarding them until the next time. Angel would only let himself be seen if Wesley had his eyes closed.

"We really need the Stone," says Giles, recalling Wesley to the present and their mission. "Without it, the Dream Stealers will escape their underworld prison and wreak havoc in people’s minds. Buffy *must* be able to use the Stone to imprison them again."

Welsey knows enough about psychology and the brain to understand that people who cannot dream go slowly, irrevocably insane. The Dream Stealers, half-remembered archetypes in Watcher lore, are a horror that apparently only the Stone of Morpheus can banish.

Angel and Wesley reach for the Stone at the same time, their fingers brushing inadvertently. 

"Why doesn’t bleach boy wake up and try to pound the snot out of you?" asks Buffy.

"Yes, we should consider that," says Giles. "This is most unexpected. I thought we would find Spike hiding or attempting to make some nefarious use of the Dreamstone. I didn’t think we’d find him apparently under its spell himself."

"Is he dreaming?" asks Wesley, watching the still, dead face. "What do vampires dream?"

Angel’s reply is very soft. "Can’t you guess? We dream that we’re alive."

No. Wesley will not fall under the spell of Angel’s sadness. Not again.

"Who cares?" says Buffy, who seems not to have heard Angel’s response. "Let’s get the Stone, stake the thief, and go home."

"I thought you said you gave it to him," objects Xander. "Not that I care."

"Yes," says Willow. "Gift. Theft. They’re not exactly the same thing, Buffy."

"No one’s getting staked – not tonight, anyway." 

Angel grabs the Stone but he can’t pry it from Spike’s fingers, no matter how hard he tries. "Damn vamp strength. I don’t want to break his hand."

The smell of spice is strong again and Wesley gags on it, feeling dizzy, wanting to throw up. Honeysuckle curls in the back of his throat, sweet shell on a kernel of bitterness. He closes his eyes tightly and fights the nausea. He won’t shame himself in front of Angel or Buffy or even the sleeping Spike. 

"Wesley."

When he opens his eyes, the flashlights have either discovered their superpowers or it’s broad daylight. Angel is still kneeling in front of him, body pale in the sun, but very much a muscular slab of not-dust. The others are nowhere in sight, except for Spike, half-buried in the – furrows of an open field. Even the trees are gone, save for the odd cluster of willows here and there on the outskirts of the field. 

"Well," says Wesley, "that was unexpected."

It’s a chill English autumn, with the wheat still in the nearby fields, and the familiar drone of insects on a late country day. He’s dressed for California and he shivers, not just from the cold. Angel is staring at something behind him so he turns, pivoting his torso but careful not to move from where he’s kneeling, in case that matters somehow to whatever magic or illusion has brought them here. 

There’s an old thatched cottage behind him, with apple trees and a flower garden in front of it. The apples look ripe and ready for the picking and his mouth waters, nausea forgotten. Wesley didn’t eat dinner before they left LA and all he’s had for hours is a cup of tea in Sunnydale. He almost doesn’t notice the honeysuckle, flowering out of season on the cottage walls like a pretty parasite. He can’t smell it from the field, even with the gentle breeze.

"Where are we?"

Angel is blinking in the sunlight as if his eyes aren’t used to it. Which, Wesley remembers, they’re not. It occurs to him that he’s never shared a lazy autumn afternoon with Angel, picking blackberries and eating them, licking the sweet juice off each other’s fingers. They can’t be that kind of lovers. Maybe no one can, outside of Wesley’s daydreams of a half-forgotten English youth.

"I think we’re dreaming," says Angel. His fingers are wound around Spike’s and the Dreamstone.

"This could be my dream," agrees Wesley, nodding slowly.

"Or mine, or Spike’s. This could be England as any of us remember it."

"How do we stop it?"

Angel releases Spike’s hand to fall back on his slim chest. 

The countryside remains unwaveringly beautiful. "I guess letting go of the Stone isn’t going to do it."

"I never touched it in the first place."

"Nah. So, do you know much about Stones of Morpheus?"

"No," says Wesley. "Do you?"

"No. In fact, I kinda know nothing at all about them. Or it. Don’t know if there’s more than one. I know a bit about dream magic though."

The whirring of crickets fills the long silence while Wesley contemplates his ignorance. Angel continues to kneel in the fresh dirt, his face a mask of serenity. Whether he is actually thinking or not at times like this, Wesley has never been able to determine.

"I’m guessing..." Angel says slowly.

"Yes?"

"I’m guessing, maybe we should have asked these questions earlier. But the main thing we have to do – the only thing really – is wake up."

"Indeed. That’s not very helpful, Angel, since I don’t know how I fell asleep. Do you suppose that we’re in any danger?"

"Here? I don’t know. You’re in no immediate danger until your body starts dying of thirst. I’m gonna be in a bit of trouble around about dawn in Sunnydale."

Wesley’s heart starts to beat faster. "Can’t they just bury your body? Like Spike’s?"

"I don’t know much about dream magic but I do know that it’s fatal to move the sleeper. I read it somewhere."

"They could cover you with a blanket," suggests Wesley, trying to remember if there’s one in the trunk of Angel’s car.

"Yeah. That’s kind of a short-term thing, as protection goes. Look, someone’s coming out of the cottage."

Wesley cranes his head around and watches as a slender young man strolls across the field towards them, carrying an old-fashioned cane. He has light brown hair, cut short and curling, and is wearing the country dress of a Victorian gentleman. It’s not until he’s quite close that Wesley recognises the man lying in the ground next to them.

"Well," says Angel, "I guess that tells us whose dream this is."

"Why?"

"He’s the only one of us who’s here twice."

"Good afternoon," says the young man, his voice pleasant and cultured, nothing like the punk rocker tones that Wesley half expects to hear.

"Good afternoon, Will."

"How do you know my name, sir?"

"I’m a ... er ... friend of the family. Yes, that’s right, on a visit from Ireland."

"I’m afraid you have the advantage of me," says Will, smiling politely.

"I have indeed," grins Angel. It’s not a pleasant expression.

"I’m Wesley Wyndham-Pryce, and this is Mr Angel."

"How do you do."

There’s a round of polite handshaking and then Angel’s hand kind of slithers up Will’s arm to grasp his chin. It’s done so casually that Wesley is almost surprised by the young man’s gasp.

"You’re so warm," whispers Angel. "Still alive. Listen to me, Will. Hear my voice. You know my voice and you trust me. I’m your sire, your family. Tell me. What were you thinking of, when you fell asleep? You held the Stone in both hands, your eyes got heavy, you started to drowse, and you were *thinking* about something. What was it? What’s the trigger for this dream?"

Wesley’s spellbound himself and wants desperately to answer the question but he doesn’t know how. He also wants to rip Angel’s fingers off Will and suck them like blackberries. None of this is real, so what’s to stop him? It’ll be the same as a hundred other dreams since Angel called them into his office and told them, same blankness on his face as now, that they were all fired and would they mind getting the fuck out of his hotel.

Angel comes to him in his dreams, rather as he imagines that Darla haunted Angel. At first, he’s a half-seen figure in the distance, while Wesley walks and walks and walks. The destination is never important, but he knows he’s made it when Angel steps out of the shadows behind him and touches him. Angel’s arms come around him and cool hands slip inside his shirt to thumb his nipples. Soft bites on the back of his neck tell him who it is, as if there were any doubt. When Angel turns him around, he takes Wesley by the shoulders and kisses him, hard and fast. If Wesley’s wearing a tie in the dream, then Angel chokes him with it, playfully, reminding him of how it will feel when Angel’s big cock goes down his throat. Wesley likes that. He’s usually wearing a tie in the dreams.

"Close your eyes, Will, that’s good. Feel the sun on your skin. Smell the fresh mown grass in the air. You’re lying in a warm lake, floating, not a care in the world. You can feel water lapping around you. The sun’s so very warm. The water is comforting. It’s nice and heavy around you like a blanket. It covers you. Just your head is showing. It’s safe. You’re breathing. In and out. In and out. So very heavy on you. You’re relaxed and sleepy. You can hear the crickets in the distance. Listen to them, Will. They’re singing to you. And you’re holding something, aren’t you, Will? Tell me what it is."

Wesley almost misses it, Spike’s voice is so quiet. "A stone, I’m holding a stone."

The man in Angel’s grasp is still, his eyes closed, barely breathing. It’s the vampire in the ground who’s spoken.

Angel doesn’t move or look down. "That’s right, Will, it’s a stone. It’s very old, all the edges smoothed away. It’s starting to get dark but you’re still warm. The heaviness covers you. You’re safe. Where are you, Will?"

"There’s a fire in the grate," Spike murmurs but his dead lips aren’t moving. "It’s unseasonably warm but I like the way it glows and flickers. The lamps are lit. I’m in – the library, yes, that’s it. The library. Mother is sitting opposite me in her favourite chair."

"That’s good, Will. You’re doing very well. You’re so relaxed that you feel boneless under the warm water. What are you doing in the library, Will?"

There’s a long silence and Wesley holds his breath, trying not to move. Angel is carved out of rock and he holds Will motionless.

"I’m reading," says Spike. "Reading to mother from a book of poems. It’s one of our favourites."

"What’s the poem, Will?"

"Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, close bosom-friend of the maturing sun. Keats. You know the one, Angelus."

Angel is startled, as if he wasn’t expecting to be addressed by name. He moves for the first time, a restless shifting on the balls of his feet, as if he’d rather be holding an axe. Will stirs under him and opens his eyes.

"Where is your library, Will? Where do we find it here? You and your mother are sitting there, and you’re reading a poem. Close your eyes. You can see the flames crackling in the fireplace. Where are you, Will?"

"In the castle."

It’s Will who’s spoken, not Spike, and he’s pointing to a hill behind the cottage. A castle is silhouetted there in the late afternoon sun.

"There’s always a fucking castle," mutters Angel. 

"It wasn’t there before, was it?"

"None of this is real, Wesley. It’s a dream." Angel sounds exasperated and he seems to know more about how all this works than Wesley does. It’s galling. Wesley relies on being the one who knows things or can find them out quickly in his Watcher’s collection or Angel’s personal library. If he doesn’t have that, what use is he to Angel? Forgetting the big joke that Angel works for him now, what possible reason will there be for Angel to keep him around?

"What do we do now?" he asks, hating that he needs to.

"We’ve got to find this library of Spike’s where he’s sitting reading this damn poem to his mother, and – I dunno – wake him up, I guess."

"I’m right here," say Will and Spike. It’s creepy. The words spill out together in low, melodious voices like some duet of the damned.

"Wake up!" shouts Angel, punching Will in the gut so hard that he collapses, mewling and gagging.

Wesley is frozen, shocked by the sudden violence, and then he drops to his knees beside the twitching human. Will clutches one arm around himself, gasping, and Wesley flashes back on the sound of a gunshot and the terrible searing pain. He shakes his head to clear it. It’s not him bleeding on the ground. Not this time.

Angel is looking rueful and cradling his fist as if it hurts, but Wesley’s sure it doesn’t. "Well, that didn’t work."

"Angel..."

"Wes, he’s a vampire. A little tap isn’t going to do him any lasting harm."

Wesley helps the shocked man to sit up, supporting him with one arm, but his mind is on Angel and what he’s said. Or rather what he hasn’t said.

"What do you mean, no ‘lasting harm’? None of this is real so if he’s hurt in the dream, it doesn’t affect his actual body, does it?"

"None of this is real, Wesley, except for when it is."

Sometimes, Wesley wants to smack Angel until he bleeds. The fact that he knows he *can’t* probably makes it all right. 

"That doesn’t make any sense, Angel."

"It’s dream magic. It’s not supposed to make sense."

"Wanker." It’s Spike, still motionless and half-buried in the field. "That hurt, Angelus."

"You’ll live," smirks Angel. "Or, rather, you won’t."

"Spike, can you tell us how to end the dream?"

The vampire remains silent, unmoving with eyes closed, as if he’s never spoken and never will.

Will is breathing more normally now and they stand up together, the young man leaning on Wesley and shooting quick, wary glances at Angel. The older vampire seems to be ignoring them, his entire attention directed down at Spike. Angel’s poised like a Rodin sculpture, violent movement captured and frozen in time, eternally still. And very beautiful. Wesley staggers with the impact of that beauty. He wants Angel with a craving so awful and deep that he thinks a hellmouth must have opened up inside him. He shudders and Will is steadying him, rather than the other way around. 

"If I stake you, will it be over?" asks Angel. His voice is soft and very gentle.

"It’ll never be over. Poofter."

"Then you’ll stay here while you slowly starve, until your bloodless body turns to dust. That’s if the others bother to cover you from the sun."

Will laughs, the carefree sound shocking in the middle of such tension. He tugs Wesley’s hand. "Let’s go pick some apples."

Angel moves so fast there’s a rush of air and he’s beside them, reaching out for Will. The young man flinches but Angel just touches his cheek, flicking it with his finger. Angel is smiling again and the hellmouth yawns a little wider inside Wesley. He wants Angel inside him, desperately; his tongue, his fingers, his cock, all of him. Wesley must be a slow learner because the last few weeks of agony have taught him precisely nothing.

"You go pick apples," says Angel, his voice very kind. Wesley remembers that the Greeks called the vicious Furies, who punished the worst crimes of humanity, the Kindly Ones. "Wesley and I are gonna go up to the castle and wake Sleeping Beauty from his long slumber."

Will looks from one to the other uncertainly, before finally turning and jogging back across the field towards the cottage and its apple trees.

"I never knew him when he was alive," says Angel. "I think you two would have liked each other."

"Two bookish mice, playing with the cat," muses Wesley. 

His eyes don’t follow Will but seek out the castle on the faraway hilltop. It makes him think of the castles in Wales, how they must have looked when Edward I built them and stamped his bootprint on the countryside so many centuries ago. It’s a big hulking shadow in the afternoon sun, obviously the home of the local bullyboy, built to intimidate and dominate. Today the Welsh castles are all ruins, decaying grandeur, and wouldn’t scare anyone. This one worries Wesley – it looks all too current and lived-in.

It surprises him when Angel takes his hand as they walk across the field together, away from Spike’s body. It should be more of a surprise that Wesley lets him.

The cottage is very pretty, probably built in the eighteenth century, and looking like someone’s postcard of English country life. Spike’s, presumably, which tells him more than he wants to know about what’s buried inside a vampire. Will has shinnied up a tree and is tossing apples down on the ground, laughing out loud all the while. His cheeks are flushed red and he seems part of the postcard. Angel’s smile makes Wesley wonder if this is wholly Spike’s dream.

They’re close enough to smell the honeysuckle now, its sweetness overpowering in a way that it’s not outside of dreams.

Angel draws in deep breaths and his chest rises and falls. Wesley can’t help himself. He wants to touch Angel so badly. He runs a tentative palm down the broad chest, enjoying the feel of silk under his fingers and solid muscle behind it.

"I’d almost forgotten how good that smells," whispers Angel. 

His voice breaks the spell and Wesley snatches his hand back, furious at himself. Angel reaches for him and tugs Wesley’s hand back against his chest.

"I like the way you touch me. I still want you, Wesley."

How does one fight a force of nature? Wesley can stand in front of this avalanche and let it bury him. Or he can run.

"I want to feel the sun on my back, Wesley. It’s been so long. I want to make love to you with the sun on my back."

Angel’s voice is low and liquid, like when he gentled Will beside Spike’s open grave and held him unnaturally still. Wesley feels himself falling into his own hellmouth and fears that he’ll never get out again. If he lets Angel touch him. If he lets Angel love him. It’s the end of everything.

Angel has autumn berries and he pops one into Wesley’s mouth. Rich sweet explosion on Wesley’s tongue and then Angel’s kissing him, tasting the sweetness, stroking his tongue and breathing in and out for him. Maybe this is Wesley’s dream after all. He kisses Angel back, trying to map the vampire’s mouth with his tongue, and Angel lets him. There are hands on his waist, tugging at his pants, pulling them down and exposing his ass to the crisp afternoon chill. Wesley moans into Angel’s kiss as a thick, blunt finger probes between his cheeks.

Honeysuckle fills the air but there’s the smell of blackberries now, too. Angel crushes them in his hand and strokes Wesley’s lips with a juice-dripping thumb. Wesley takes it into his mouth and sucks hard. Angel’s fingers are wet and sticky as he slides first one and then another inside Wesley’s body.

This isn’t real, Wesley tells himself, trying to deny the stabbing sensation of fingers moving inside him. Angel pulls him close and kisses him again, plastering Wesley against his chest. The fingers scissor inside him, opening him wide, and Wesley moans into Angel’s mouth. This can’t be happening. He doesn’t agree to this. But it’s not real and he wants it so badly.

Part of him wonders how Angel can finger fuck him, hold him, and kiss him so very very thoroughly, all at the same time. The rest of him is just grateful. And hard as a rock.

"I want to fuck you, Wesley," Angel whispers in his ear. Wesley groans at the loss of Angel’s mouth. A third finger works its way inside him, burning and stretching him, opening him up for Angel.

"I’m gonna fuck you very, very hard. Do you want that? Do you want that, Wesley?"

Yes, his mind screams. All he can do is moan again, and bite Angel’s throat like the vampire he’s not.

We should be getting to the castle, he knows he should say. It’s dangerous to linger, he needs to say. The sun may be rising in Sunnydale.

All that comes out is an incoherent wail as Angel adds a fourth finger and fucks him hard, banging Wesley against his body with every thrust. Wesley’s cock is mashed between them, dripping with need. He doesn’t know how or when Angel lost his clothes, but they’re both naked, cock to cock. He feels Angel’s answering need, the soft steeliness of his erection, and it excites him past bearing.

"Fuck me!" he screams. He’s sobbing for breath, overwhelmed by the sweetness in the air and the smell of Angel’s sweat. His cries are muffled by Angel’s chest. He wants to eat Angel alive and attacks his nipples, tearing at them with his teeth. Angel groans, voice heavy with lust, and pulls his fingers out of Wesley’s ass with a sharp jerk.

The craving moves from Wesley’s teeth and cock to his empty ass. He begs for it, voice high and tight, telling Angel how much he loves him. Pleading with Angel to fuck him. Angel’s answer is a kiss, so long and hard that Wesley nearly blacks out from lack of air. When he comes to, he’s on his hands and knees on the soft grass and Angel is on top of him, bruising his hips in clenched fists. He feels the thick head of Angel’s cock nudging its way inside him, slow and steady. The entry is easy as Angel skewers him in one long, slow lunge. Wesley has no idea what they’re using for lube but he’s feeling no pain. It’s just a dream and it can’t hurt him. Except when it can.

Angel is all the way inside him. Wesley’s heart is hammering and his cock is drooling onto the grass. Angel’s broad chest covers his back and he feels every inch of Angel’s body. There are legs pressed against the backs of his thighs, and Angel is kissing his shoulders and neck. 

The fuck is long, slow and delicious. The breath is forced out of Wesley’s lungs with every in-stroke. Angel hammers him full-length each time, and pulls out almost all the way, before crashing forward again to bang his hips against Wesley’s ass. Wesley loves every second of it. His knees dig into the grass and tear it as Angel slams them forward, inching their way across the lawn towards the honeysuckle-covered cottage. His knees are sore and they might be bleeding but it doesn’t matter. All that matters is the length of Angel inside him, the vicious pounding of his prostate, and the feel of Angel on him, in him, all around him. When Angel takes his hands off Wesley’s hips and wraps his arms like steel bands around Wesley’s chest, it makes him sob with the pleasure of it.

Angel may be in total control of his body but not even he can make it last forever. He’s staying inside Wesley for longer now, grinding his hips against Wesley’s ass, stirring his big cock over Wesley’s swollen prostate. Each thrust rips a high wail from Wesley’s mouth. It hurts so good to have Angel fucking him harder and harder. Short, quick jabs follow the long grind, a vicious pounding of Wesley’s ass that stokes him inside. The wails become a scream when he finally climaxes, Angel fucking the come out of him in long, hot bursts of pleasure. Wesley sprays the ground and his arms collapse, unable to hold himself up any more. He’s sobbing and Angel is howling as he comes inside him, fucking Wesley so hard that his legs give out as well and they sprawl together on the soft grass.

Angel’s arms are still tight around him and they don’t seem to want to let go. He feels the sweaty chest plastered against his back and wriggles with contentment. He wants to turn and lick the sweat up but that would involve moving, which seems beyond him at the moment. Wesley knows that this can’t last but he wants to enjoy it as long as he can. There are shadows in front of him and it’s starting to get dark. If he could just keep Angel inside him for a little longer, it will all turn out right. Somehow.

"You don’t love me," Wesley says at last, when he recovers his breath enough to speak.

Angel’s reply is calm and steady, as though he hasn’t just fucked Wesley into the ground. "I don’t know, Wesley. I thought I loved Darla. I’m not sure if I’m capable of the kind of love you think you want."

Angel’s cock is still inside him and it flexes when he feels Angel shrug. 

"I know I want to be your friend." Angel shrugs again. "We’re family."

Family. The word carries a whole trainload of twisted baggage for Angel. For Wesley too. 

"I just realised something. You didn’t finish that story you told me in the car. What happened to the baby? Did you pay the price?"

Angel is boneless and relaxed against him and he sounds fucking amused. "Do you even have to ask?"

"Yes, I think I do."

"I didn’t kill the baby, Wesley. I grabbed it and jumped face-first through the mission’s stained glass window. I was picking glass out of my skin for days afterwards. I seem to recall feeling that I deserved it."

"What happened to the baby?"

"I left her at the British legation. It’s kind of a long story, actually. I could tell you in the car on the drive home."

Home.

"You abandoned her?" 

Wesley knows it’s unfair but he’s feeling well fucked and a little cruel.

"I left a note," says Angel. 

"You left a note."

"Yeah."

"Oh. Well, that’s all right then."

"I thought so."

Angel paid a price, then and now, though not the asking one.

"Angel..."

"It’s getting dark. We should have been at the castle by now."

Angel sounds pensive but Wesley can’t see his face. "Yes. Twilight. The gloaming."

"This used to be my favourite time of the day. Before Darla damned me and I damned her right back again."

Wesley doesn’t want to go there right now. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to think of Darla without reliving that crushing sense of pain and loss that her presence in Angel’s life has caused him.

Angel’s softening cock slips out of Wesley’s ass. They are apart again, little or nothing left to connect them, or so it feels.

"Mother says that we’re going to have apple pie."

Wesley jerks in Angel’s arms and pulls free, sitting up and trying to cover his groin. His cupping hands encounter cloth and he realises that he’s dressed again. A quick glance over his shoulder shows that Angel is still naked and grinning as well. Angel stretches, showing off his muscles, and a thin line of fluid trickles from his spent cock. Wesley wants to lean over and lick it off but he can’t bring himself to do it in front of William.

Apples crash around them as Will dumps his load and drops to the ground, sitting on the other side of Angel.

"No pie for Angelus," he says, his smile turning pure Spike.

Angel wraps an arm around Will’s shoulders and squeezes. 

Will’s smile doesn’t falter. "The Winnower’s coming."

"You needn’t sound so pleased about it," says Angel, dryly. "I guess we shouldn’t have let ourselves get – um – sidetracked."

Wesley has forgotten about the battle with Death. It all sounds rather final, even for a dream. Not even vampires can defeat death. All they do is embrace it.

"What happens to our real bodies if we die here?" he asks, not sure if he wants to know the answer.

Angel shrugs again. It’s starting to annoy Wesley, though the impressive rise and fall of Angel’s naked shoulders and chest is some compensation.

"Vampires dream that they’re alive," says Will. He bites into a small red apple. Juice trickles down his chin like Angel’s come. "But they’re not. We’re not. So Death is in all of our dreams."

Angel pauses in the act of getting dressed and gathering weapons that seem to be turning up out of nowhere. "How come you know so much about it?"

Will does a good imitation of an Angel-shrug. "I hold the Stone. You’re going to be dust, Angel. You, me, and the Watcher. Then the Slayer can have the Stone and get on with saving the world or whatever’s on her tits this time."

"It’s not going to end like that," says Angel, hefting a huge broadsword. 

"Whatever you say, sire."

Wesley wishes that his ass ached, that he had a physical reminder of what he’d just done with Angel. Instead, he feels fighting fit. Maybe it’s just as well.

"Why do you want to die, Spike?" he asks, more than curious.

Will grins and winks at him. "Who says I want to die?"

Angel points over Wesley’s shoulder. "He does."

It’s too late when he turns around. There’s nothing behind him but Spike.

Oh. A Spike that smells of spices like he’s just been embalmed.

"What?" asks Spike. "You were expecting a skeleton in a cowl? That’s so last century, luv."

Will steps forward to take Spike’s hand. "The Winnower. Nice coat."

Spike’s wearing his duster and black leather pants, looking like an 80s rocker’s wet dream, the way Wesley remembers him. His hands are long and white. They stroke Will’s soft, light brown curls.

"I don’t like the hair much," says Spike.

His fingers trail down Will’s jaw and Spike snaps his neck so quickly that there’s not a damn thing that anyone can do. Will falls at Spike’s feet like some gruesome trophy, his head lolling at a very unnatural angle.

Spike rubs his hands and smirks at them. "Who’s next?"

Wesley knows it’s stupid but he has to try anyway. He kneels next to Will and checks for a pulse. It’s obvious that the man is dead but – but he was picking apples, laughing. There’s still a trail of sticky juice on his chin. He can’t be dead.

"Why didn’t the dream end with the dreamer’s death?" asks Angel.

"There’s still one left. A sad little fool, buried up to his neck in a field that is forever England. I’ll do him last, when you’re both dead, and then this will all be over."

Wesley backs away from Death and his trophy, trying to give Angel room to swing.

"You’re wrong," says Angel, face giving nothing away as usual. "Here and now, you’re Spike, and I’ve beaten Spike every time it’s mattered."

"Really?" and Spike is gone, so fast Wesley didn’t even see him move. All he knows is that there are pale fingers around his throat. "Shall I take this one, Angelus? Which will be more fun for the fool in the ground? For you to watch the Watcher die, or for him to have to watch you?" 

"This isn’t real." Wesley feels the fingers tighten but he ignores them. "Angel and I – er – had sex – and I’m not even sore. If I die here, it won’t make the slightest difference."

Keep him talking. It’s the only defence left to Wesley. There’s no way that Angel can get to them before those powerful hands break his neck.

"Don’t know much about the Stones, do you, Watcher?" Spike breathes in his ear. "But not to worry."

Spike sends him sprawling on the ground as easily as if he were a child. Wesley gapes up at him, probing his sore throat. He can still feel *that*. 

"Spike wants the Watcher to see Angelus bleed out and drift away on the wind, before I end the Watcher’s existence. So, guess I have my orders, huh?"

"My name is *not* Angelus."

Wesley coughs and tries to think as he watches Angel fighting Death with sword and knives and clubs. 

It just doesn’t add up. He has a Watcher’s training and he needs to *use* it. "Death" seems all too subservient to the mental whims of the sleeping vampire, yet he just doesn’t fit in this dream. An autumn landscape, a thatched cottage, tilled fields, and a castle on the hill. The scent of honeysuckle and sex on the air. Apples and blackberries, sweet with life. And somewhere, at the heart of it all, a young man reading a poem to his mother.

Death has no place here, no traction. Yet Will’s body is lying only feet away from him. Angel is bleeding from a dozen wounds but he hasn’t managed to land any on Spike. The quips are flying as fast as the knives and it’s all – wrong. He doesn’t know why, he just knows that it is.

Wesley tries to remember the poem. He learnt it as a child and it’s one of his favourites. If he’s right, then everything in this dream springs from the words of a poet who’s been dead for nearly 200 years. 

It’s hard to get up again from where Spike tossed him aside like garbage but he manages it somehow.

"Stop," he commands.

The warriors ignore him.

"Angel, stop."

"Um," gasps Angel, "kinda busy here, Wes."

The vampire springs a somersault and almost skewers Spike, who dodges unbelievably fast and slashes Angel’s gut with his scythe.

Wesley closes his eyes and does the hardest thing he’s ever done. He turns his back on Angel for only the second time ever and starts to walk away across the field. If he’s wrong about this, then they’ll all be dead soon enough. If he’s not...

As he walks, he whispers the words of the poem aloud.

"Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find

Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;

Or on a half reap’d furrow sound asleep,

Drows’d with the fume of poppies..."

Wesley stops beside the half-buried Spike and sinks down next to him, cradling Spike’s head in his arms. Behind him, he hears the tread of heavy feet. That’s Angel.

They have both followed him, Angel and William the Bloody. Angel seems drowsy and relaxed and Wesley can see that he’s hard in his pants. Spike is Will in the dimming light and he carries his scythe on one shoulder. Angel isn’t bleeding any more.

Wesley covers Spike’s dead hand with his own and feels a faint warmth that must be the Dreamstone.

"...while thy hook," he continues,

"Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:

And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep

Steady thy laden head across a brook..."

Angel is behind him, arms cradling Wesley against his chest. Will lies full-length on Spike and their lips are joined.

"...Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,

Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours..."

Wesley feels the softest kiss on his head. Leaves are falling on him, barely gold in the light of the dying sun. Will is gone and Spike lies in his grave alone.

"Um, Wesley." Angel brushes leaves off his hair with every appearance of annoyance. "What the hell just happened?"

"Spike wanted us to think that the Winnower was Death. But it was Autumn. Just like in the poem."

"I wasn’t fighting Death? I was fighting *Autumn*?"

"And let there be no mistake, Angel. You were getting your arse kicked."

Angel explains how he was actually winning the fight as they watch the sun go down. Wesley listens with half an ear while he thinks about Gunn and Cordelia and friendship. He’s feeling mellow, his spirit glowing with the after-effects of victory and of sex with Angel, even if his body doesn’t remember it. Strangely, it makes him think of his friends and not the brawny arms that are even now holding him a little too tight for comfort. The Dreamstone is growing warm under Spike’s fingers and Wesley closes his eyes for just a moment.

When he opens them, he’s not surprised to find that he’s holding the Dreamstone in his own hand, and that the hot night air of Sunnydale is close about him again. The forest clearing is lit with dancing beams as the children play with their flashlights. Angel is lying on the ground next to Spike, and Wesley is standing over both of them. He can’t tell if either of them is conscious. He already knows they’re not alive.

"I wonder how long it’ll take," says Xander.

Wesley doesn’t look at any of them and Giles’ reply seems to come from a long way away. "Oh, do be quiet, Xander. I thought I emphasized the importance of absolute silence."

"But you talked just then, Giles," objects Willow. 

"Yes. Well. Hush now, Willow."

"I don’t see why we can’t just stake him."

"Buffy, why do you want to stake Angel? Well, apart from the him dumping you and going off to LA thing."

"Duh! Not Angel. Spike."

"Hey. No one’s staking Spike."

"Xander’s Spike’s eromenos. Xander’s Spike’s eromenos. Xander’s Spike’s..."

"Shut up, Buffy. You don’t even know what it means."

"Neither do you."

"Yeah, well, Tara knows and that’s good enough for me."

"Oh, for Heaven’s sakes..."

Wesley lets the babble wash over him and enjoys the strange peace that he’s feeling. The sunset lingers behind his eyelids in flashes of red and pink, and he can still taste the blackberries. He closes his eyes.

"Bloody hell! What are you lot doing here?"

Ah, so Spike has survived the ending of his dream. Wesley wasn’t too sure that he would.

"Hey! Bleach Boy’s awake. Can I stake him now?"

"No, you may not, Buffy."

Angel is looking up at Wesley with his eyes blinking, doing his dumb vampire impersonation. Wesley offers him a hand and, when Angel accepts it, hauls the heavy-set man to his feet.

"What happened?" Angel asks the assembled multitude.

Wesley ignores him, watching curiously as Xander kneels to help the quietly cursing Spike, who is busy digging himself out of the ground. The sky doesn’t look any lighter than when it all began what seems like hours ago. He checks his watch. If it’s still working, then the whole dream has taken ten minutes from beginning to end. That doesn’t seem very likely, although magic is always strange and unpredictable.

The others are busy trying to answer Angel, and Rupert is scuffing the ground with something that looks like embarrassment.

"Actually, I wasn’t watching."

For a Watcher, it’s quite a confession.

"Me neither," says Willow.

"I was talking to Xander," explains Buffy.

Xander is busy scrabbling in the dirt with both hands. "Um, I was talking to Buffy?"

Angel is a blend of amused and irritated, which looks good on him. His eyes are sparkling. "So, none of you knows what happened?"

"It’s only been a few minutes, Angel," says Buffy. "We can’t be expected to watch you all the time. You’re not the centre of the universe, you know."

Angel’s amusement chills into a cold stare at Buffy. "A second’s inattention can get you dead."

"I ... er... I was watching."

It’s the shy one, Tara. This is the first time Wesley’s met her, and already he knows he prefers her to the rest. She has a beauty that almost lights up the clearing. Holding the Stone, he feels that she has lovely dreams.

"Nobody moved for a few minutes, then Wesley stood up and Angel let go of Spike’s hand. Angel lay down beside Spike, and Wesley stooped over and took the Stone of Morpheus from Spike. Then they woke up."

"I see," says Giles, sounding dissatisfied. "That’s rather anticlimactic, isn’t it?"

"What?" asks Angel, giving Wesley a secret smile that heats his blood. "You’d have preferred a duel with Death? That kind of thing?"

"Frankly, yes. This all seems too easy. And there is the prophecy to consider."

Angel claps Giles on the back with the kind of bonhomie that cripples. "Relax, Giles. We fought the monster, saved the maiden, ate the apple, and woke Sleeping Beauty. Time moves differently in dreams."

Giles rubs his sore shoulder and glares at Angel. "That’s all very well but..."

Wesley interrupts them by offering the Dreamstone to Buffy. It’s cool to the touch now and he tries not to think of keeping it and having an eternity of Angel, living in a thatched cottage and fucking under an afternoon sky. He suspects that no matter how slowly or quickly his real body will die, for him it would be an eternity of bliss in a never-ending dream. He supposes that even sex with Angel would pall eventually but then there’d be other things, limitless as his imagination. The subconscious can play nasty tricks, though, and Spike did not emerge the victor from his own dream. The Stone’s as alluring and deadly as Angel himself, and much easier.

"I believe you wanted this." His hand barely trembles as he gives the Stone to Buffy. "Be careful with it. It’s very dangerous."

He prefers reality, after all. Bruises that stay sore and monsters that stay dead. Gunn at his back and Cordelia beside them both. Books to satisfy the mind and Angel to slake him, body and soul. He can maybe have it all until the next time a Darla comes along.

Giles seems to sense his reluctance. "The Stone was created thousands of years ago for the very battle that Buffy must now fight with the Dream Stealers. You needn’t fear its future effects on anyone. If Buffy is victorious, then all the Stones will stop working and the threat will be gone."

"*When* Buffy is victorious, you mean," says Angel. "And that’s all okay, so long as Spike doesn’t...where is Spike?"

The grave is empty and Spike is obviously long gone. Xander doesn’t meet their eyes, his expression a strange mix of sheepishness and defiance.

"I dunno," he says, kicking the loose earth viciously.

"He went that way," says Tara, pointing in a vague semicircle behind Xander that’s really no help at all.

"Why didn’t you say anything?" asks Willow.

Tara doesn’t answer but just smiles in a way that makes Willow blush.

Wesley sidles up to Angel and whispers in his ear. "A second’s inattention can get you dead?"

Angel splutters in a very satisfying way. "I was...yeah, well...Spike’s very...okay, I wasn’t...I really want to bend you over that tree stump and fuck you right now."

Giles stares at them as if he can’t quite believe what he’s just heard. Wesley gives him a look of innocent inquiry that clearly makes Giles question his own senses.

"Can’t you use that vamp mojo to find him?" asks Buffy, coming over and tapping Angel’s arm impatiently with one of her stakes.

Angel moves the stake away and smiles at her until she retreats. "He’s running away. Very fast. What more do you need to know?"

"We’ll deal with Spike later," says Giles. "For now, we have to get back to the shop and start the ritual to confront the Dream Stealers."

"I’m not riding in the car with Xander. He let Spike get away."

"Oh, c’mon, Buff..."

There’s still hours to go before daylight, more than long enough to complete the drive back to LA. Wesley decides that he is *not* going to spend another minute with Buffy and her gang if he can avoid it. Let them get on with the ritual to save the world. He has no part in Buffy’s mission any more and doesn’t want one. He has his own place with Angel Investigations, with or without the Angel.

"We’ve dealt with Cordelia’s vision," he tells Angel, quietly so the others won’t hear. "And you’ve recovered the Stone for Buffy. I think our part in this is done, don’t you?"

Angel clearly wants to stay and make sure Buffy survives the current doomsday crisis, but he doesn’t argue. Maybe he’s finally remembered that Wesley is now his boss. That seems as likely as Xander going to college.

"Yeah." Angel’s looking at Buffy, not Wesley. "Letting go. It’s like when your dad has a pair of pliers on your tooth and he’s saying to you, ‘it’ll be out in just a minute. You won’t feel a thing.’ And when it really is gone, it hurts and there’s this hole that you keep feeling with your tongue, over and over, knowing that there should be something there but there’s not."

They follow the others out of the clearing, side by side but not touching.

"We have dentists for that kind of thing these days, Angel. Time has gone by. Things have moved on and changed."

"I know. It’s just – hard."

"I know."

They walk the rest of the way to Angel’s car in silence, apart from the crunching of dead leaves under their feet.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written by Ellison Wonderland (ewonder2001@yahoo.com.au). Posted on the author's behalf by the Angel Book of Days Moderator

The drive back to LA is more relaxed than the tension-filled nightmare of the journey to Sunnydale. Wesley feels well fucked without a sore ass to sit on, and Angel is less anxious and determined to bond. The conversation is desultory. Wesley doesn’t mention Buffy, Angel doesn’t talk about Darla, and they get by. When Angel puts his hand on Wesley’s crotch, all he manages is a sleepy chuckle.

"Hey, Wes, I know a good motel if we leave the freeway at the next turn-off. We could spend the night and tomorrow together, and drive the rest of the way home tomorrow night."

"Really?" says Wesley, lazily, placing his hand on top of Angel’s and moving it slowly up and down. "Whatever would we do, locked up in a motel for the day, with you unable to venture outside?"

"I bet we could think of something."

"Sex doesn’t solve anything, Angel," he says, but there’s no heat in it. All the warmth is concentrated between his legs.

"I want you, Wesley." Angel’s voice is low and a little hoarse. It makes Wesley’s cock jump against their twined fingers. He can hear the need in Angel but he’s not sure what it’s really for.

"There isn’t a price to pay for coming back, Angel. Trust can’t be bought like that. I may never forget you locking the door on that room full of human beings and listening to them die."

Angel frees himself from Wesley’s imprisoning hand and roams higher. When he finds a nipple and plucks it right through the cotton of Wesley’s shirt, it causes a little cry like a wounded animal. Wesley has a vague hope that Angel is watching the road but it’s a small and distant thing, compared to the fire in his chest. Angel twists his nipple and the cotton tears. It’s shockingly loud like Wesley’s moan in the close confines of the car.

"Why don’t you take that turn-off?" Wesley gasps.

"I came to see you in the hospital but Cordelia wouldn’t let me in."

It’s hard to concentrate on what Angel’s saying, with his fingers plucking Wesley’s nipples and making him sing like a violin.

"I ... I know. She told me. Oh God. Do that again. Please."

Angel twists, his nails biting deep, while Wesley squeezes and rubs his aching cock. Too much more of this and he’s going to – oh, fuck – and Wesley comes in his pants like a horny teenager.

The smell of sweat and semen is like an aphrodisiac. He’s just come and he’s still hard, aching for it. What is Angel doing to him?

"We’re there, Wes."

Slowly, bit by bit, Wesley catalogues his surroundings. The car isn’t moving any more, though Angel’s hands are now both in a very correct position on the wheel. There’s a flashing neon sign outside the window, welcoming them to the Holiday Motel, 24 hours a day. A dingy looking vending machine slouches next to a block of generic motel units, and there are a few late blooming flowers in a strip of garden under each set of windows. The curtains look reassuringly sturdy light-blockers from the outside. And there’s a wet, uncomfortable feeling in his pants as his excitement cools.

Wesley gives Angel a bland smile. "You’re the one with the credit card, so you can get us a room. I’ll grab the bags and meet you out front."

Angel makes a show of inhaling deeply and sniffing the air before he gets out, with a very self-satisfied grin. Wesley ignores him and pops the trunk to get their bags. He really shouldn’t be surprised to see blond hair and a pair of pale blue eyes staring up at him. There’s even a deceptively engaging smile.

"Thanks, pet. Thought you’d never stop and let me out. My, my." Spike sniffs as audibly as Angel. "Someone’s been a naughty boy, then."

Before Wesley can slam the trunk shut, the vampire has hopped out and is handing him the overnight bags. "There you go, Watcher. Don’t worry about me. I’ve got this chip in my head, remember? Harmless, that’s me."

"What are you doing here?"

"Well, I thought it might be wise to get out of Sunnydale for a bit. Give the Slayer some time to cool down. And here was this ride, ready and waiting for me. ‘Sides, it’s a long walk back to town from that forest, I can tell you. So, I thought to myself, I’ll catch a ride with my dear old sire. He won’t mind. Won’t be the first time he’s given me a ride."

Spike is leering at Wesley like he’s in a cheap porn movie.

"Stop saying ‘ride’," snaps Wesley.

It’s been a long night and it’s going to get longer. He can feel his prospect of being fucked all night by a guilt-driven Angel fading like autumn mist. Spike is not kind to dreams, even the ordinary ones.

"If you start running now, Angel might not find you and stake you."

Spike pouts very effectively. "Gotta have someone to feed me and protect me from the big bad humans. It might as well be the only other vampire sick enough to live on bagged blood. Just ’til the Slayer calms down, then I’ll be out of your hair."

Wesley sits on the curb and waits for Angel. While he’s waiting, he retrieves Angel’s phone from his trousers pocket and dials the number for home.

"Angel Investigations, we help the hopeless. How can I help you?"

"Hello, Cordelia."

"Wesley!"

He holds the phone away from his ear while she shrieks at him.

"Why haven’t you called earlier? Are you all right? Angel left some dumb message about how you were all fine but, how can you trust *him*, right? Wesley? Are you there?"

"I’m here. How’s your headache, Cordelia?"

"Much better. I took a couple of – oh, I see what you mean. It’s better because you took care of the vision. Well, that’s good. Who did you save? Buffy? And is Angel off getting all groiny with her? He’d better not be, or I’m gonna cut off his – his bits – with my nail scissors. Slowly. Which reminds me, did Gunn tell you about my hair? I cannot *believe* what those morons did to me. All because I had a damn vision and threw myself on the floor while they were dyeing my hair. You’d think they’d be used to that kind of thing in LA. Anyway, they..."

"Actually, I think we saved Spike. The Powers seem to have developed a sense of humour. Either that, or Spike is important to them in some way I can’t begin to fathom."

Wesley watches the vampire from the corner of his eye. He’s sitting on the hood of Angel’s car, kicking his heels and wiping smudges of dirt off his jeans. It looks like he’s wearing a clean shirt, maybe the one that Xander brought with him for tracking purposes.

"You saved Spike? As in Vampire Spike, Angel’s whatever, an evil murdering vampire with great hair? That Spike?"

"Is there another?"

"How should I know? Focus here, Wesley. Okay, so you saved the evil vampire and everything’s all right. Where are you now?"

"We’ve just stopped at a motel for the night. It’s called the Holiday Motel, about halfway between LA and Sunnydale. Angel’s just getting us a room. I hope he gets one with an extra bed."

"Why do you need an extra bed?"

Damn. He’s tired and thinking aloud. He needs to pay more attention to what he’s saying. "Because we have Spike with us."

"Spike’s there? You have a recently evil vampire, a currently evil vampire, a blood bond like the one with the D-word that we don’t mention, and now they’re gonna share a bed? Are you *crazy*?"

"Cordelia..."

"Gunn," she screeches, clearly not bothering to muffle the mouthpiece. "Get your axe. We’re taking a little road trip."

"Cordelia, everything’s fine. Put Charles on, please."

"You’re staying at the Bates Motel with Obsesso and another blond vampire from his evil family. You do the math. Everything is not fine. Gunn! Wesley wants to talk to you. Quick, before he gets murdered."

"Hello. English? Talk to me. What’s going on?"

It’s a relief to hear Gunn’s voice and Wesley feels pathetically grateful for it.

"It’s all sorted out, the vision’s resolved, and we’re on our way back to LA. We decided to stop for the night at a motel and we’ll be back tomorrow night. We’ve got Spike with us, which is what Cordelia’s insane ramblings referred to. He has a chip in his brain that prevents him from harming humans. Angel, as we have cause to know, can take care of himself. So there is absolutely no need for alarm." Unless Gunn would be alarmed at the thought of Wesley not getting fucked by Angel tonight. Probably not.

"Okay. Gotcha. I’ll tie up Cordy and we’ll see you tomorrow night. Take care."

"You too. Bye."

Angel is standing right in front of Wesley when he looks up. He has a hold of Spike by the ear. That’s got to hurt.

"Let’s go," says Angel, his face blank. He seems fatalistic about the unwelcome appearance of Spike, as he is about most things.

Wesley shrugs and follows the vampires to their motel room. At least he’ll be able to peel out of these damp, uncomfortable pants and have a shower. Anything else is Angel’s loss.

***

The rooms are much nicer than Wesley expected. If you don’t mind shit-brown, then the paintwork can’t possibly offend anyone. There’s a huge bed against the far wall, and a narrow single bed off in a pokey little side room. That will be prefect for Spike. It’s all done out in beige with a faded green carpet but Wesley finds it restful. It could be any motel room, anywhere in the States. What’s unusual about this one is its occupants.

Spike is rooting through the cooler, selecting and rejecting bags of blood on a system comprehensible only to himself. Angel’s more interested in his wardrobe, laying out clean silk shirts and pants on the bed and stroking them longingly. Then again, Spike has been buried and dreaming for a while now, so he’s got to be ravenous.

"They’re all the same, Spike," says Angel, selecting one of the shirts and holding it up to the light.

"So are those," replies Spike, nodding at the shirt that Angel’s just dropped on the bed.

Angel ignores him and wanders into the small room, checking the window and tapping on the walls. Spike watches with a wary eye as he sidles into the kitchenette and pops a bag in the microwave. Angel continues to check the walls and even starts stomping the floor with his boots like he’s dancing an insane jig. There’s a ping and the smell of hot blood fills the room as Spike pierces the bag and gulps it down, not bothering with a cup.

"Angel, what..."

"Seems secure enough," mutters Angel. "Walls are solid, floor is solid, and that window doesn’t even open."

Spike is walking backwards casually towards the bathroom but he doesn’t quite make it. Angel sprints the short distance and then they’re grappling, rolling around on the floor like a sex show in the sort of club that Wesley never goes. They’re so fluid they could be oiled or wrestling in jello, slipping over and around each other and neither can quite pin the other before the undulating floor show starts up all over again.

Wesley presses himself back against the wall and tries to keep out of the way. He’s tired and his pants are clammy but he’s fucking hard again and watching them is like a waking wet dream.

Angel has produced a coil of rope, presumably from his bag, and he’s hampered by his efforts to tangle Spike in it. Spike almost gets away and makes it as far as the door when Angel trips him and somehow gets Spike’s wrists in one hand and ties them behind his back. After that, the fight is much more uneven but Spike keeps going and they’re grunting and humping like it’s sex. Angel is on top of Spike, trying to tie his ankles, while Spike writhes under him and screams bloody murder.

"Wesley," says Angel, not even panting, "would you do something about that mouth, please?"

Wesley’s allowed to play? Not thinking, he crouches in front of Spike like an automaton and unzips his pants. He’s a slave to his cock, and it wants out, out, out. He’s just about to shove it in when his brain makes a valiant attempt to resume control. What if Spike bites him? Even with the chip, the vampire might not be able to help himself.

"What are you doing?" Angel demands, voice quivering for the first time. It sounds like shock.

"Shutting him up," says Wesley, feeling a bit ridiculous suddenly with his cock hanging out and the other two fully clothed.

"I meant, with a gag. There’s one in my bag."

"Oh." Wesley feels all kinds of stupid and small.

"Speak for yourself, wanker," snarls Spike over his shoulder at Angel. "I was looking forward to sucking on that."

Wesley scrambles to his feet and backs away, trying to tuck his cock out of sight. He hasn’t felt so embarrassed since – well, ever. He turns his back on the fight and searches through Angel’s bag, hoping his cheeks aren’t as red as his still swollen cock. He finds a thin strip of cloth, which must be the gag, and brings it over to Angel. He can’t meet the vampire’s eyes.

"Wesley..."

He’s almost made it to the bathroom when Angel gives a triumphant shout, and dumps a tied and gagged Spike in the tiny room and slams the door on him.

"All done," says Angel, rubbing his palms together with satisfaction. "Now, how about a shower?"

"Oh, I was just going to..."

"I meant, together."

"Oh." Wesley’s not sure if he can now. But his cock is hard and aching back inside his pants. It’s still doing his thinking for him. "All right."

Angel gives him the sweetest smile and starts peeling out of his dirty, sweaty clothes. They leave their things lying where they fall and giggle like schoolboys as they run their hands all over each other. Angel has already filled the bathroom with what seems like a dozen bottles of gels and soaps and shampoos, and there’s a huge chrome shower installation that frankly doesn’t look like it should fit in such a small space. Angel turns the shower on and jets of steaming hot water explode at them out of faucets above their heads. Water drips off Angel like he’s a melting ice sculpture, soft and satiny on the outside but a core of steel underneath. Wesley strokes acres of smooth skin, feels the muscles in Angel’s arms and chest, and runs his tongue lightly over a damp collarbone. It feels so good, he has to do it again.

The water drums on his back like a masseur as he repays Angel for his sore nipples. He tongues Angel’s nipples until they stand out straight, and then closes his teeth on them. Angel growls lightly, a rumble Wesley can feel on his slick forehead as he butts Angel’s throat and bites his nipples. Angel growls again. Louder.

The water massages his head now as he licks his way down Angel’s chest and stomach, dropping to his knees on the hard, chrome floor.

Ouch.

Ignoring the twinge of pain, he plants wet, sucking kisses on the sensitive skin of Angel’s thighs. Water drips off the end of Angel’s erect cock, which is wreathed in steam and still smells of sex, no matter how fresh and clean they’re getting. Wesley tongues his big, heavy balls and tries to swallow them, tugging them in his mouth until Angel’s growl becomes a series of staccato grunts. His wet cock is all that Wesley can see and he trails his soft nose along its length. The head is hot and flaring, wet from the shower and a constant dribble of Angel’s own fluids. Wesley engulfs if with his mouth, tonguing it clean and swallowing whatever Angel has to give him. He sucks hard, rewarded with the touch of gentle fingers on his head.

The water’s hot and Wesley feels like he’s being boiled alive as he sucks half the length of Angel’s cock down his throat. It’s very thick and he gags on it, letting it slip free, before plunging head-first again, trying to take more and more of it. His knees slide a little on the slippery chrome and he impacts with Angel’s legs, as strong and resistant as tree trunks. The new position lets him hump his own straining cock against the fine, slick hairs of Angel’s calves. He’s out of the direct line of the spray, but Angel’s so wet that Wesley’s cock slides easily against Angel’s skin like he’s inside him.

Excited by the thought and feel of it, and staring up avidly at Angel’s hard gut and broad chest, Wesley tries to swallow the entire length of Angel’s cock. His tongue flickers and torments the soft skin while the walls of his mouth and throat make love to it. Angel is forcing himself deeper, tugging on Wesley’s hair. It must feel like he’s burying himself in an undulating furnace. Wesley chokes and loves it, impaling himself, gorging himself on Angel’s body. He thrusts against those slippery legs and butts his head in triumph at Angel’s gut. The big cock is all the way down his throat now and his air is cut off.

Wesley has trained himself underwater. Holding his breath for minutes at a time. He used to imagine that Angel’s cock would kill him and that all he wanted was to die. He thinks it might be sick but he can’t help himself. One more second. And another. Just one more.

Finally, he has to breathe, surrendering to his white-hot lungs. Angel’s cock slips out of his throat and Wesley takes a breath, before plunging home again.

"Wesley!"

It’s a broken cry above him and it inspires him to new efforts. His mouth is glued around the base of Angel’s dick and he writhes for Angel’s pleasure. His own cock pulses and shoots its load on Angel’s leg. Wesley gulps, swallows, screams around the flesh impaling him as Angel swells alarmingly and starts to come. It’s like bursts of firewater, hot and fatal. Wesley takes it all, fussing and licking, coaxing every last drop out of Angel’s dick and feeling drunk on it.

He’s laughing, he can’t say why, when Angel pulls him to his feet and starts to kiss him.

Their hands are busy and Angel’s kind of holding him upright, washing him, turning him this way and that in the streams of hot water. Wesley relaxes into it and lets himself feel.

"I’m going to wash your hair," murmurs Angel, touching his face.

Wesley feels like someone who’s cared for, safe and loved, as Angel strokes his hair and massages his scalp very gently. He can still taste Angel’s come in his mouth and the back of his throat as the vampire starts to shampoo his hair. Little rivulets of water sting his tightly closed eyes.

The shampoo is delicious, an overpowering sweet scent of...

"Angel?" he asks, suddenly feeling cold in the warm water.

"Shhh," murmurs Angel. "Let me do this for you."

Wesley pulls away and claws the water out of his eyes. "What is that?"

He can see again and Angel looks puzzled, holding out his shampoo as if it might bite.

"It’s my new shampoo. Apples and Honey. Don’t you like it? I could find something else."

"When did you get it?" demands Wesley, stepping out of the water and away from Angel.

This earns him an even more confused stare. "What? I guess I bought it when – um – I don’t really remember. What’s the matter, Wesley? Wasn’t I good? I thought it was good. Great, actually."

"Don’t you recognise it?" Wesley backs away from the shower, groping for a towel. He’s getting water everywhere but it doesn’t really matter. Not here.

"Wesley. What’s wrong?"

"It’s the same smells, Angel. Honeysuckle and autumn fruit, and everything else from that bloody dream. Don’t you see? We’re still in it. We’re still dreaming. None of this is real."

Angel gives Wesley his best humouring-the-soft-Watcher look. "Just because I got a new shampoo? C’mon, Wes. We won. We woke up, remember? You gave the Stone to Buffy."

"I first noticed the smells walking in the forest, even before we found Spike. They’ve been nagging at me ever since. I wonder if we were dreaming then, too, long before we knew it?"

Angel’s expression is pure disbelief so Wesley leaves him to rinse his brain with the rest of his dick, and goes in search of clean pants. His jaw should be sore, after nearly dislocating it to swallow Angel’s huge cock. So why isn’t it? Why can’t he feel the bruises where he banged his knees on the shower floor?

Spike is sitting on the bed, on Wesley’s clean pants actually, manifestly untied and ungagged. He applauds quietly, smirking all the while. "Good one, luv. I was starting to think that they taught Watchers jack shit in that fancy school of theirs."

There’s a faint hint of spice in the white-blond hair, as Wesley shoves Spike aside to get his pants.

"I’m glad we can entertain you. What I’m not sure of is whose dream this is. Is it yours or mine? Which of us has the Stone?"

"I’m free, aren’t I?"

"Possibly. But so far you’ve spent the time either tied up or in the trunk of a car, whereas *I* have ridden in comfort and had mind-blowing sex."

"He’s good, isn’t he?"

Wesley wants to hit Spike’s smirking face so bad that he can feel skin under his knuckles. "That’s not the point."

"Maybe I like to watch. And it was even hotter, sitting out here listening. Picturing it in my head. It gets a bit boring, just *doing* it after the first hundred years or so."

Wesley has no answer for that so he’s grateful when Angel emerges from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, his fat cock swinging casually between his legs and drawing every eye in the room.

"Why did you let him go?" Angel asks Wesley, pissed in an offhand way, as he tugs his pants on but loops his belt around a strong, capable hand. "Now, I’ll have to give him a good, hard whipping."

Spike concedes the point. "This is definitely your dream, Watcher. No way I was wanting that."

Wesley’s not sure if Angel’s joking or not. He’s about to hunt up a stake when there’s a hammering on the door, loud and urgent, practically giving him a heart attack.

"Open up or Gunn will break it down!" shouts a familiar voice.

"Oh, great," says Spike. "Now we’ve got Huey and Dewey as well."

"I am *not* Louie," snaps Wesley. "Why can’t you be ignorant of popular culture, like Angel?"

"I’m not joking," shouts Cordelia. "Open the door. Gunn’s getting really mad."

Angel covers the distance in a heartbeat and lets them in. There is little evidence of Gunn’s supposed fury. He looks nothing but resigned.

"Sorry," he mouths at Wesley.

"Aha," says Cordelia. "There are no shirts. We have topless men, all wet and – why is your hair sticking up? Did you – Wesley? You have dried shampoo in your hair. You didn’t rinse!"

Wesley has never heard her more outraged in all the years he’s known her.

"Cordelia..."

"Wesley has gone mad. I knew it. Do something."

This was to Gunn.

"Ah. I guess I could rinse his hair?" Gunn nods decisively, throwing Wesley a look that’s pregnant with some unknown message, and sets off for the bathroom.

Angel steps in front of Gunn, blocking his passage, hands apparently relaxed at his side, the belt hanging a few inches below one fist. "Wesley’s mine," he says, flatly. "No one else touches his hair."

Spike crows with laughter. "Definitely your dream, Watcher."

"Is that right, man?" says Gunn, eyeballing Angel. "I think Wesley’s friends, the ones who stood by him when certain other people didn’t give a damn, are the ones who have the right to touch his hair."

This is crazy. Gunn doesn’t even want to touch him on a sane day.

There’s a crack as Angel snaps the belt taut between his fists. "Wesley and I have settled our differences, Gunn, and *nobody* touches him but me."

Spike’s laughing so hard that he falls off the bed. No one else seems to notice. Cordelia is screaming at Gunn to do something and Angel is caught up in his alpha male strut.

Wesley needs this to be over, so he roots through Angel’s coat pockets until he finds the car keys. The answers, whatever they might be, are not to be found in this motel room. And there’s a small part of him that’s worried that, if he lets this go on too much longer, he’s going to end up feeling the kiss of that thick leather belt. An even smaller part of him is scared that he’ll like it.

"Right, then," he says. "I’m off."

Spike follows him out the door, shrugging into his duster and whistling some German tune from before the war. Wesley can’t help smiling when he recognises it.

"What was it like?" he asks, as he unlocks the car. "Munich in the 1930s? I can’t imagine living through that and still seeming young today."

"I didn’t like the Nazis much."

"I thought they’d be just your cup of tea," says Wesley, climbing in behind the wheel.

"Nah. It’s much harder when borders are closed and everyone has to carry papers, and the whole world’s locked down or blowing itself to bits. Sure, you can do some scavenging if you’re in the right place at the right time, but give me peacetime and democracy any day. Fat, complacent societies, freedom to move, and a state-protected right to be anonymous. You can’t beat it."

"That’s an – interesting perspective. I hadn’t thought about it like that."

"That’s what I like about you, Watcher. You can actually see things from another point of view. Of course, it’s a bit of a bitch for *you*, to be always seeing the other side of things."

"Nobody’s liking anyone," says Angel, stealing the keys through the window before Wesley can start the car. "Get out."

"Angel, I’m going back to that forest. I have to find a way to end this before it’s too late."

"I know," agrees Angel. "I was talking to Spike. You’re not leaving until he’s out and I’m in the car with you."

Cordelia appears at Angel’s side, her mouth open wide with horror. "Wesley! You can’t go anywhere with your hair like that. People know me in Sunnydale. They know that I know you. They may even know that I *work* with you. Get out of that car this instant."

"I called shotgun," says Spike. "Angel can sit in the back."

"I am *not* sitting in the back."

"Wesley is *not* going looking like that."

Wesley lays his offensive head on the steering wheel and tries not to hyperventilate. The line between friendship and nightmare seems to be a thin one.

"Just close your eyes," whispers Spike.

Wesley takes his advice. He can still see the red and pinks of sunset behind his closed eyes, and smell the honeysuckle and blackberry juice. His fingers are warm around the Stone.

"How do I wake up?" he asks.

Angel’s voice is soft in his ear, like a kiss. "What were you thinking of, when you fell asleep? You held the Stone in your hand, your eyes got heavy, you started to drowse, and you were *thinking* about something."

He’s heard those words before. This seems familiar.

"What was it, Wesley? What’s the trigger for this dream?"

Angel said these things to Will, it feels like a hundred years ago.

"I remember the sunset. We were sitting beside Spike and the Stone was getting warm. I was thinking about my friends, about Gunn and Cordelia, how lucky I am to have them. How blessed I am to have them. And I was thinking about sex with you, how good it felt to have your arms around me. There was a strange kind of peace. Yes. For the first time in months, I felt a sense of peace."

"We’re here with you now, Wesley. Cordy and Gunn are here. I’m here. It’s not the way it was for Spike, dreaming about something he can never recover. You can *have* those things if you wake up. You don’t have to be lost and dreaming to get them. Wake up, Wesley."

It’s not true. Angel is lying to him. The waking world is full of betrayal and loneliness, imperfect friends and faithless lovers. It’s a world with Darla in it, where Angel balances on a knife-edge between light and dark, and where he’s not having sex with Angel. Not if he wants to be sure of surviving to see each new day.

The Stone pulses like orgasm, warming him from the inside. He can have a world where Death is just another season, and there’s always fruit on the vine and sweetness in his lungs. Angel will always love him, faithful and tireless, wanting him the same tomorrow as he does today. They can be together where it doesn’t hurt, and the only risk is the occasional tricks of a neutered vampire. Wesley can love Angel.

"Wesley, please, listen to me. What do you think will happen if you don’t come back? Who will be there to ground Cordelia, to bitch and laugh with her, to be her friend, to help her fight the despair and pain of the visions? Who’s gonna watch Gunn’s back and stop him from killing himself with his recklessness? Where are they gonna end up without you? And what about me? How long do I last without a Watcher to help me think things through, who can be my adviser and my friend? What happens to us without you, Wesley?"

He can tell himself that they’ll be better off without him. But, given the alternative, he hates Angel for knowing it isn’t true.

They need him. And he has always answered to the need of others, all his life.

Wesley opens his eyes.

He’s holding the Dreamstone in his hand and the hot night air of Sunnydale drives away the last lingering scents of an English autumn. The forest clearing is pitch black but he can just make out Angel, lying on the ground next to Spike. Wesley is standing over both of them and the Stone is ice cold between numb fingers.

"I wonder how long it’ll take."

"Oh, do be quiet, Xander. I thought I emphasized the importance of absolute silence."

"Giles," he says. It comes out as a croak, as if he hasn’t used his voice for a long time.

"Wesley?"

Several flashlight beams blind him a second later and he’s still blinking when they turn the glare on the bodies at his feet.

The others hurry over from wherever they’ve been camping out, and he feels an arm around his shoulders, hugging some warmth into him. That’s Willow. It’s a hot California night but he’s shivering with cold. He leans into her embrace.

"What happened?" he asks.

"You tell us," says Giles. "You were all motionless for a long time and then suddenly Angel stood up and went to lie down beside Spike. Then you stood up and you took the Stone from him. You’ve been standing there, ever since, not moving. We tried to wake you but had no better luck than we did with Spike so we decided to wait."

The sky is growing light. It’ll be sunrise soon and they have to get Angel and Spike under cover.

Angel is sitting up, stretching, looking at Wesley with an unreadable expression. He doesn’t take his eyes off him, even when Buffy goes over to help him up.

Spike isn’t moving, half-buried in the forest floor, and Xander has his light trained on the vampire. Spike’s face is white and bloodless and the skin looks like it’s stretched too tight. It’s more skull than living human in appearance.

"He’s starving," says Angel. "He’s gone too long without blood. Much longer and he would have crumbled to dust."

"Why did he do it?" asks Willow, still warming Wesley with her body heat.

"I don’t know," replies Angel.

Xander whips out a small knife but Angel stops him before he can cut himself, closing his fingers gently over the hilt and pushing it away.

"Let me," says Angel, abstracting the knife from Xander without any appearance of force. "My blood will do him more good than yours. We have bags in the car as soon as we can get him there."

Angel crouches over Spike and opens a vein, directing a slow, steady trickle of blood between Spike’s dry, chapped lips. They watch it drip into the vampire’s mouth, and Wesley gives a sigh of relief when Spike starts to swallow.

He turns away from the gruesome scene and approaches Buffy, who looks equal parts stunned and horrified at what is going on between Angel and Spike.

"I believe you were looking for this," he says, handing her the Dreamstone.

Wesley thinks that he’s safe from it now but he’d prefer the distance from here to LA between him and temptation. It’s so powerful. It offers everything, and all it asks in return is – everything.

In the end, it’s not a price he’s willing to pay.

"Be careful with it. It’s very dangerous."

"I’ll see that she comes to no harm from it," promises Giles. It’s what Watchers do. They protect their charges and they make promises they can’t keep. "The Dream Stealers, on the other hand, are quite beyond my abilities to deal with."

"That’s what Slayers are for," says Buffy, cheerfully. "The sun will be up in a couple of hours. We’d better head home and get Angel indoors."

She tosses the Stone in the air and catches it like it’s a baseball.

Wesley follows it with his eye until she throws it to Willow and they start throwing it back and forth and laughing. Wesley stops her then, by tapping her politely on the shoulder. Buffy pockets the Stone and turns to look at him.

"Yeah?"

"Give me a black eye."

"What?"

"Please. Give me a black eye."

"You want me to hit you?"

"Yes. It’s the only way I can be sure I’m awake. I *need* this. Please. Just consider it delayed payback from my time as your Watcher, if you want."

Buffy shrugs. "Okay."

She hits him so hard that he’s knocked flat on his back and can’t move without stabs of blinding pain. Blood drips on his face a second later and Angel is standing over him.

"What the fuck was that?" demands Angel.

He turns on Buffy and smacks her a few yards into the forest and then all Wesley can hear is distant taunts and grunts as they fight it out. Wesley misses most of it, as he crawls over to donate the blood from his split lip to Spike. It’s the least he can do, since he interrupted the vampire mouth-to-mouth. Besides, he’s wanted to try kissing Spike ever since he saw Will licking apple juice off his chin with his clever tongue.

"What the fuck is with you?" says Angel as he hauls Wesley off Spike, stands him up, and then starts patting him down like he’s looking for injuries or contraband.

"Nothing’s with me," replies Wesley, his voice distorted a little by his thick lip. "Nothing at all. If it’s safe to move Spike, I suggest that we start making our way out of here."

Angel touches his swollen cheek once and then nods.

Wesley grimaces and falls in behind Angel as he throws Spike over his shoulder and carries him out of the clearing. His face hurts all the way back to the car.

***

Wesley’s face is still hurting when they pull up at the Holiday Motel. He uses the company credit card to pay for the room. The woman behind the counter is a friendly soul and gives him some ice and sympathy for free.

"You been in an accident, hon?"

"Yes," he replies stiffly, savouring the pain. "A slight disagreement with a wall."

She hands over the room key with a sceptical smile. "Really?"

"Actually," Wesley deadpans, "it was my boyfriend’s ex."

Her smile kind of congeals and slides off her face. "Oh. Have a nice stay."

"Thanks, I’m sure we will."

Wesley is not conscious of any irony as he holds the icepack on his aching cheek and returns to the car to collect his baggage.

Angel does the dash to their room in a heavy overcoat with a blanket wrapped around his head, gloved hand in Wesley’s, clearly trusting that he won’t be walked into a wall or made to fall flat on his face. It’s tempting but Angel’s trust is not something that Wesley wants to live without.

The room is nothing like the one in his dream. Wesley’s grateful for that, and for the constant throb that reminds him that it’s real this time. He agrees to accept some painkillers from Angel’s rather extensive stash, finally starting to believe in the pain and that it’s not going to disappear just because the moment has passed. Angel pours half a drugstore onto the big double bed and roots through it, muttering and rejecting various pills, before finally settling on a couple of innocuous looking white tablets.

"These should help."

Wesley sinks into a big, overstuffed chair and nods when Angel hands him the pills and a glass of water. He wonders if Angel would let him sleep there. It hurts to swallow and he welcomes that too.

"I’m gonna call Cordelia and let her know we’re okay."

"I’ll just be sleeping," says Wesley. Although he’s spent half the night in a dream of sorts, his body does not feel at all rested. It feels like it’s been contorted, pummelled and used for the sex it didn’t really get. Come to think of it, Wesley feels like this most nights after one of Cordelia’s visions.

Angel’s voice is a quiet, steady murmur in the background and Wesley’s eyelids droop. Maybe it’s safe to rest for just a while. He’s not sure how long he dozes, before strong hands lift him out of the chair and start to strip him.

"Angel," he half-protests, but there’s no force to it, and he lets himself be stripped with quiet efficiency and walked into the bathroom. Angel holds him up in the shower, and that’s when he realises that Angel is naked too. His head rests on Angel’s chest as if it belongs there. The hot water stings his cheek and it helps him wake up a bit. He realises suddenly that the big cock resting on his thigh is not his own. It’s starting to take an interest in proceedings and he reaches down to give it a sharp squeeze.

"Angel. This is not a dream. I am still very angry with you and I am not going to have sex in the shower."

Angel’s laugh is low and damnably sexy. "Whose hand is on whose dick?"

"Oh."

Wesley stops what was meant to be a punishing squeeze and has turned into a caress. Stupid hand.

He leans on Angel and lets the vampire splash water on him in a way that would pass for washing from a careless chambermaid on a bad day. Angel is feeling him up and Wesley doesn’t really mind, because he’s about to keel over and not even Angel will fuck him when he’s unconscious. He trusts Angel that much.

"Did you get hold of Cordelia?"

"Yes," says Angel, shutting off the water and steering him over to sit on the bathroom stool. Wesley’s mesmerised by drops of water trickling down the slabs of muscle on Angel’s chest, on their way to the promised land. He doesn’t dare look down as Angel roughly towels him dry. When he feels a soft kiss on the top of his head, he wants to cry.

"Is she all right?" Wesley’s voice is hoarse but maybe Angel chalks it up to his injury.

"Yeah. Gunn’s gang got into a fight with some vampires but he’s fine and no one was badly hurt. Cordy’s headache is gone. I guess we did whatever the Powers wanted done."

Wesley tries to think about that and not about Angel kneeling in front of him, or the rough velvet feel of Angel’s hands towelling his legs and thighs.

"I need you to spread your legs a little."

It’s unbelievably sexy and Wesley wants to scream.

"I’ll do the rest," he says, tugging the towel out of Angel’s hands. The vampire surrenders it without a fight and grabs another from the nearby towel rail.

When Angel bends over and starts to dry his own legs, Wesley’s up and out into the bedroom before he’s made a conscious decision. All he knows is that he cannot see Angel’s ass and stay sane.

"Wes?" Angel calls from the bathroom door. "Are you all right?"

"I’m fine," he replies.

Angel has laid some sleepwear out on the bed for him. It’s one of Wesley’s old t-shirts from his rogue demon hunter days. At least it was always too long for him and will cover his ass. Otherwise, it’s a pretty thin protection from Angel. Where’s an acre of buttoned-up flannel when you need it?

Wesley drops the towel and pulls the shirt on over his head, before climbing into the bed. Sharing it won’t be a problem, since he’s sure he’ll go straight to sleep. He’s exhausted and his brain thinks he’s already been fucked tonight, no matter what his body has to say about it.

"Do you want another painkiller?" asks Angel as he climbs over Wesley to take the other side of the bed. He’s naked and his big cock and balls dangle in Wesley’s face for a moment, framed by huge legs and a waft of soap and ball sweat. For a second, Wesley can see and smell nothing else, and he’s instantly hard. Damn Angel. He couldn’t just walk around the other side of the bed like any normal, considerate employee? The vampire must be laughing himself silly at poor hard-up Wesley, so desperate that he’ll fall for a trick like that and let himself be fucked by the first betraying two-faced bastard ex-friend that comes along.

"No thanks," he says. "I think two was enough."

"I’ve left some more with a glass of water on the bedside table, if it gets bad during the night."

"Thank-you."

"Do you wanna – talk?"

Wesley sighs. Here it comes. Maybe he should just masturbate and let Angel be the one to feel excruciating embarrassment for a change. "I think we’ve said everything there is to say, don’t you?"

Angel gropes under the covers and takes his hand, twining their fingers together and squeezing gently. "I’m really bad at this. But I’m sorry and I want to make it up to you."

Wesley switches the bedside lamp on so that he can see the blank wall of Angel’s face. "It’s like I said to you before. The shark doesn’t apologise for being a shark. That’s what it is. It may even be a great shark, and do great things, important things. But it’s still a shark. It only has to apologise when it pretends to be a dolphin."

"I don’t get that," says Angel. His eyes are very sincere for a serial killer’s. "You’re saying that I can never change, never atone for the things I’ve done. If that’s true, I may as well give up, dump the Powers, and go work for Wolfram and Hart."

"But that’s the point, Angel. You don’t do these things for a reward in the form of settling a cosmic scorecard. You do them because they are the right things to do. Any other reason at all will see you end up with Wolfram and Hart eventually. It’s only a matter of time."

Angel draws his thumb across Wesley’s palm, making his hairs stand on end. Wesley is wide awake now and cursing silently. Maybe if he rolls over on his side, Angel won’t notice his erection.

"I lost sight of what was right for a while, Wesley. I admit that. But what I did for Darla, it’s what I do for all those who need my help. I tried to save her."

"It was more than that, Angel."

"Yeah, I know. I was willing to die to save her Wesley. I offered my life so that she could keep her soul and have a second chance at life. And you know what? The universe spat in my face and had itself a good old laugh, because dying of syphilis at the mercy of Wolfram and Hart – that *was* her second chance."

"Angel, sometimes the only thing we can do for those we love is let them die. You know I have a no-resuscitation order in my living will. If, God forbid, I’m ever turned, I expect you to stake me."

"I tried to give her that gift too and failed."

There’s a wealth of bitterness in Angel’s voice and Wesley doesn’t have an answer for him. He can’t even deal with his own. He wonders how much of their dream experience was identical. Does Angel remember making love to him under an autumn sky with the scent of honeysuckle in the air? Or did Angel experience something else altogether? Have they ever really been on the same page, in all the time they’ve known each other? Wesley remembers the hard, desperate couplings in the aftermath of battle. The rough caresses. The ever-growing dominance of Angel in his life until one day he was standing stunned and devastated on the sidewalk, dismissed from Angel’s office and bed without a backward glance.

"You sent us away. You left us with the visions and your mission, and went off on your own to do – things, questionable things. I don’t have the right to judge you Angel. But I do have the right to decide who I want in my life and on what terms."

"What I did for Darla, I’d do it for you."

"I know, Angel. That’s why we’re even having this conversation."

"Oh. I just thought I should say it. Out loud."

It’s awkward and Wesley fumbles a bit when he reaches for Angel’s cock.

"I love you, Angel," he whispers into the hard wall of Angel’s chest, pressing soft kisses until the cut on his mouth opens and he’s tasting his own blood. "I love you but you’ve always known that. Then and now. It doesn’t solve anything."

"And this does?" asks Angel, grasping Wesley’s dick in his turn and stroking it slowly. He runs his thumb over the sensitive head and makes Wesley bite down on the taut skin of his belly.

"What does this solve?" Angel repeats, masturbating Wesley roughly.

"Maybe it can just be what it is. Two souls connecting for a time and giving each other pleasure." Wesley knows it’s a rationalisation but his cock doesn’t care. It jumps eagerly in Angel’s hand and spits liquid defiance at the world.

Angel leans over to kiss him, touching his lips to the side of Wesley’s mouth and raining kisses on his uninjured cheek. He’s careful not to hurt Wesley, which has to be the greatest irony of all.

They stroke each other’s cocks, seeming to match their pace to the beating of Wesley’s heart. As it gets steadily faster, so do their hands, tugging in short hard jerks until Angel takes control and slows them down again. He sucks a nipple into his mouth and teases it with his teeth, slowly stroking Wesley’s cock in time to the flickers of his tongue. Wesley tries not to make a sound but he can’t help groaning. His free hand explores Angel’s thighs and balls, tickling him where he knows the vampire is most sensitive.

"I love you," he keeps saying, as Angel sucks his nipples and licks his chest.

Angel doesn’t say it back but he never has. Angel’s love, if that’s what it is, is shown in actions. A hand up and a blowjob after a hard fight. Scrambled eggs and a seat at Angel’s breakfast table. Conversation late at night and a sympathetic ear after a letter from home. Strange and unpredictable acts of kindness at every turn. And always, a sense of friendship, that Wesley finally belongs somewhere. Maybe they can have some of that again.

"You’re thinking too much," whispers Angel in his ear. "Just feel it."

Angel is jerking him off in time to the thrumming of blood in Wesley’s veins. The vampire licks his skin and it must be like an alcoholic in a bar, touching a full bottle of whiskey, hoping he’ll always walk away from it in the end. Wesley matches Angel’s pace and they race to the finish line, trying to best each other, knowing they’ll both be winners. Wesley comes first, spurting over Angel’s hand with a jerk of his hips and a long, exhausted groan. Angel follows soon after, and Wesley licks it off his fingers with what must be a very crooked smile.

They lie in each other’s arms afterwards and listen to rain drumming on the roof. The weather has broken at last and the air is cooler.

Wesley falls asleep in the middle of some long story about Angelus and a pack of werewolves.

***

It’s the delicious smells that finally wake Wesley. He doesn’t want to get up at first, the bed is so comfortable and he’s cocooned in warm blankets. That can’t possibly be bacon frying in any case, unless he’s back in the dream again. It’s too good to be true.

"Wake up, Wes."

Angel’s hand is on his hair. It’s worth pretending to sleep for a touch like that. "I know you’re awake. C’mon. Breakfast’s ready."

Wesley shrugs Angel off and sits up, blinking in the semi-dark. The curtains are drawn and he can’t tell what time of day it is. The throbbing in his face has subsided to a dull ache and there’s the possibility of bacon. It’s a good day already by Wesley’s standards.

Angel hands him a couple of painkillers and a glass of orange juice.

"If you fluff my pillows, I’m going back to that forest," warns Wesley.

Angel grins and walks away, back into the kitchenette and whatever’s making those wonderful smells. He’s wearing pants and a shirt, for which Wesley’s grateful. The pants hug Angel’s ass like a second skin but he can just about cope with that.

"Do I have time for a shower?" he asks, closing his eyes, trying not to worry his split lip with his tongue. Eating’s going to be a bitch.

"Not unless you want rubber eggs."

Wesley hauls himself out of bed and uses the bathroom before stumbling over to the small dining table and collapsing on a chair. His shirt has ridden up and Angel can probably see his package but he doesn’t care. Angel’s not going to start anything with bacon and eggs on the table.

It’s always amazed him, how much Angel loves to do the cheerful vampire routine and cook him breakfast. He’s shovelling bacon and eggs on to a plate right now, almost whistling, piling it high enough for three Watchers. Wesley just nods gratefully and forks eggs into his mouth, trying to chew on one side and ignore the occasional stabs of pain. The orange juice stings but it’s fresh and chilled and tastes divine.

"So," he says politely, between mouthfuls, "I’m taking it that you didn’t risk incinerating yourself to acquire all of this."

"Nah," says Angel, watching him eat avidly like its Reality TV. "A girl came to clean the room and I paid her to get it. Her rates were very reasonable, actually."

"That’s good."

Wesley eats in silence after that, wincing each time he opens his mouth. He won’t be doing any cocksucking for a while.

Eating breakfast together feels almost normal, apart from the occasional anxious look that Angel throws his way. Is there not enough salt? Should I have put more dill with the mushrooms? Is he only pretending to enjoy it? Wesley can almost read them, the thoughts are written so clearly on Angel’s usually blank face.

There’s a cup of blood in Angel’s hand and he takes the odd sip, but his attention is wholly on Wesley. It’s – disconcerting. Wesley can’t wait to get back to LA and share the focus of this eager atonement with Gunn and Cordelia.

He puts down his fork at last, with the plate half-empty. "That was good, Angel. Thanks."

Piece by piece, Angel is reassembling their old lives like a nostalgic jigsaw of yesteryear. Some of the pieces don’t quite fit any more.

Sitting at the table, watching Angel and remembering the dream, Wesley wants to be fucked. He’d like Angel to take him right now, bend him over the table and bang him into next week. He wants to read obscure texts with Angel and relive their late-night camaraderie, after the fighting’s done and the others have gone home, and they feel the need to puzzle out what it means. What it’s all about. And then he wants to be fucked again.

"How soon until we can get on the road?" he asks, showing none of it (he hopes) on his face.

"There’s another hour or so until sunset. You slept all day. I guess you needed it."

"Yes. Well, I think I might have that shower now. Would you mind getting me another painkiller?"

When Angel turns his back, Wesley sprints to the bathroom. Angel can probably smell it but there’s no need for him to *see* Wesley’s erection.

Wesley jerks off in the shower, like when he was a boy, and washes it away down the drain. Afterwards, he dresses in casual clothes and packs his bag, ignoring Angel’s hopeful look and his obvious hints that they could spend the remainder of their time in bed.

Sex with Angel does nothing but lull him like a fly in a web. He’s determined not to do it again. That determination lasts all the way to the outskirts of LA, where Angel pulls over in an alley and fucks him in the backseat. He has his legs on Angel’s shoulders and they do it face to face, like with a woman. He barely remembers Virginia, and he wonders if Angel is pretending he’s Buffy. It hardly matters, when he has Angel’s cock in his ass, and his head is banging painfully on the doorhandle.

Their clothes are neat and they smell of fresh cologne when they arrive back at the office. Cordelia shrieks and throws herself into Wesley’s arms, sparing a cool look for Angel. Gunn admires Wesley’s swollen face and pats him down for other injuries.

"So, Wes, how’d you get this?"

Angel snickers. "He was punched by a girl."

Gunn ignores Angel and looks only at Wesley. "So, Wes, how’d you get this?"

Angel sighs and wanders off, followed soon by the smell of freshly brewing coffee.

"Are you okay?" Gunn whispers when Angel has left the room.

"Yes I’m fine." The words are stiff but he can always blame his sore face. He dares not sit down, and hopes they won’t notice. Gunn gives him a brief hug and Wesley kind of melts against him.

"I was punched by a girl," he whispers in Gunn’s ear.

Gunn is still laughing when Angel returns with a coffee pot and four cups.

"Who takes sugar?" he asks with great determination.

"None for me," says Gunn, coldly, but he has finally acknowledged Angel’s presence.

"Do you like my hair?" asks Cordelia, preening behind her desk and pretending to sort files.

Wesley was not, under any circumstances, going to mention the hair. Now he has no choice. "It’s – um – yes, it’s – well, I – um..."

"Oh, you last bought clothes in the 1970s. What do *you* know?"

That’s manifestly untrue but Wesley decides to let it go. He takes his coffee from Angel and goes to lean with his back to the wall, suddenly worried that everyone can see a damp patch where Angel’s come is leaking out of his ass.

He feels carefully behind him when he thinks no one’s looking. It seems all right but how can he be sure? Isn’t an apocalypse always accompanied by signs?

"So, what’s going on?" asks Angel.

"Nothing," says Cordelia. "It’s been all quiet on the vision front since you sorted out Buffy’s thing. No visions, no clients, zilch. Nada."

Wesley wonders how Spike is doing, being fed blood from a bag in Xander’s basement. He doesn’t really know either of them well enough to call and find out.

"Oh," says Angel. "I guess I’ll go back to the hotel then. Catch some shut-eye. Or maybe I’ll do some *reading*." This is accompanied by a meaningful look at Wesley, as subtle as a mace.

The others don’t notice. They’re too busy asking each other if Angel has just said ‘shut-eye’.

They were reading the bible together when Angel first started dreaming about Darla. They both love the bible though for very different reasons. They’ve spent hours debating the nature of vengeance and moral choices, mostly with Wesley talking and Angel appearing to listen. And that’s the most seductive temptation of them all; to guide Angel’s choices, to start thinking that he can make some of them for him or instead of him.

The vampire clasps his shoulder on the way out. "Thanks for your help in Sunnydale, Wesley."

It’s the sort of thing Wesley used to dream about. The star-athlete with his coach, the son with a loving father, the smiling approval of all the authority figures who ever lived. It’s one of the things he used to want from Angel.

Gunn and Cordelia bicker over who’s going to get the takeaways for a late dinner. Cordelia predicts that a paying customer will walk through the door at any minute, needing her to sort them out. Gunn replies that it’s his muscle they’ll be wanting, not her expertise in typing an account.

Wesley smiles at them, knowing that he’ll be going to Angel’s hotel later for fucking and companionship and a hundred other things.

Wesley Wyndham-Pryce is fucked. It’s only a matter of time.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Valente in the Angel Book of Days Autumn Challenge. Prompt: Angel, angst ~ No het, nothing beyond s4
> 
> Author's Notes ~ Thanks to Wesley's Girl for very helpful comments.


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